












* 




























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THE 


Fail 1 Maid of Connaught 

AND 

* 

OTHER TALES 

FOR 

CATHOLIC YOUTH. 

BY 

KATE DUVAL HUGHES. 

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NEW YORK: 

P. J. KENEDY 

Excelsior Catholic Publishing House 
5 Barclay Street 



1889 




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Entered according to Act of Congress, Jan. 25, 1889, by 

KATE DUVAL HUGHES, 

In the Office of the Librarian of the Congressional 
Library, Washington, D. C. 


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TABLE OF CONTENTS. 


Page. 

“The Fair Maid of Connaught,” - 7 

“The Lame Foot*,” - - - 61 

“Eulalie, or the Little Miser,” - 68 

“The Good Old Priest & the Snuff Box,” 73 
“Lies in Action and Omission,” - 78 

“Vanity.” - - - - 82 

Gratitude and Integrity,” - 89 

“The Faithful Servant,” - - 10S 

“Pamela, or the Happy Adoption,” 12S 

“Punctuality,” - 166 










“Life is real! Life is eartiest! 

And the grave is not its goal; 

11 Dust thou art to dust returnethf 
Was not spoken of the soul A 

Kathleen stood in the doorway. A truly beauti¬ 
ful picture she made; the tall, strong, yet lithe 
form, draped in the dark blue cloak; the hood 
falling back from a head whose contour and feat¬ 
ures were purely classical in their beauty. The 
limpid whiteness of her complexion, through 
which the blue veins were traced in all the ari¬ 
stocracy of blue blood,was almost unearthly in its 
purity; while the carnation bloom on her cheeks 
had deepened with the healthy exercise she had 
been taking over the moors; and the dark chestnut 
hair came rippling down from beneath the hood 
like the lovely tendrils of some vine. The repose 
of that sweet face told of one who possessed the 







8 


THE FAIR MAID OF CONNAUGHT. 


kingdom of God witliin, and the high-toned 
brow and earnest expression of eye showed some 
deep resolve—something higher—purer—strong¬ 
er—better, than the every day struggle—merely 
to live. She had just returned from one of her 
missions of love—such love as our Savior preach¬ 
ed, when he told us to love our neighbor as our¬ 
selves; her daily visit to a poor old bed-ridden 
woman, almost blind, whose friends all thought 
that the best thing was to leave her in bed, give 
her something to eat, and let her alone. Alas 1 
for humanity!—a few old crones it is true would 
sometimes gather together in her room, smoking, 
gossijnng, and laughing—without much reference 
to the poor sufferer who was stretched out pa¬ 
tiently and quietly on the bed, from which she 
was never to rise alive. Kathleen’s Christian 
goodness and mercy shone out with an angels 
light in the sick-room, of this poor, poor creature; 
she read to her the most comforting and consoling 

o o 

passages of scripture, and on her knees at the bed¬ 
side said the Kosary with her. “ Ah ! Mavour- 
neen! ” the old woman would often say in trembling 
voice, laying her withered hand on the silken 
locks of the Young Girl as she knelt beside her. 
“May God’sbest blessing ever rest on ye.” And 
the blessing of the aged, crowned by the three¬ 
fold blessing of our dear Lord, passed with and 



THE FAIR MAID OF CONN AEG HT. 


9 


upon lier through the humble doorway, and she 
appeared sometimes illuminated, so much glory 
seemed to shine in her face. 

The day was declining, and as she was resting 
against the door she heard a sweet bird-like voice 
calling from within— 

“Kathleen,is that you?” 

It was a voice with a natural trill in it, so emo¬ 
tional was it in all its cadences. 

“It is I,Eily— where is my father? I want to 
speak with him.” 

“He has gone over to Widow Me Gleg's to see 
about the Cow,” Eily replied,— 

“Come here Ma Yourneen” she continued, 
“and sit beside me, I have much to tell you, and 
my heart yearns to unburden itself.”— Kathleen 
turned and entered the inner room where a 
young girl of sixteen was sitting on a low seat by 
an open window through which a sweet briar 
rose and honey-suckle were struggling to enter, 
as though to caress her. 

Kathleen advanced quickly and resting her 
hand lightly on her head said softly—“Eily— 
what is it ?—any trouble ? ” 

The childish face was upturned to her sister 
with a tender confiding look—one hand swept 
back a wealth of hair from a low, fair, candid 
brow,—while the other grasped her sister’s arm— 




10 


THE FAIR MAID OF CONNAUGHT. 


sncli liair ! it seemed as though a thousand sum¬ 
mer’s suns had risen and set upon it in all their 
glory, gently bronzing it with the warmth; it fell 
down far below lier waist in lovely waves and soft 
curls; the deep blue eyes seemed moist with some 
tears about to start, and the sweet lips parted, as 
though to tell some tale of secret grief—at length 
it broke forth—“ Rory has been here to say good¬ 
bye—He says his people are down on him, and 
that he has no luck, and he thinks he’ll be 
off to America”—and the poor little thing 
broke down completely, and laying her head 
on Kathleen’s shoulder sobbed aloud. Kath¬ 
leen looked gravely down on the bri giit 
childish head that was half buried in the falling 

O 

tresses.—“ Eily, why did you see linn again,” said 
Kathleen, “ you know our father has forbidden 
him to come here, and does not wish you to see 
lnm, because he does not think he could ever 
make you happy—he is too wild and unsettled.” 

“ But he has never done any thing really 
wrong” plead Eily—“and—and —he loves me so 
dearly ’’-she sobbed.—Alas ! for Eily’s simple cas¬ 
uistry, by which she tried, as so many other 
women have done, to prop up their case with the 
argument of the great love that the other sex 
bears for them; which so often turns out like the 
apples on the shores of the Dead Sea-all ashes 
within.— 




THE FAIR MAID OF CONNAUGHT. 


11 


If women would only first find out the worth 
of the subject before they bestow their affection, 
and then test the strength of their own love, to, 
see if it be strong enough to endure all things, 
and figlit the great “ Battle of Life” side by side,, 
there would not be so many failures.. But unfor¬ 
tunately, women are so fond of the passive- condi¬ 
tion of being loved , that they very often look no 
farther—and so, frequently, wake from tlieir 
dream of happiness, to find themselves ship¬ 
wrecked on some barren rock—-with nothing left 
to them, but a wild waste. 

“ You are so strong Kathleen,” continued Eily, 
“ I am not like you-I know that you will be a 
nun—every body says so”—and she gave Kath¬ 
leen a questioning look. 

In Kathleen’s face came that far-away look it 
wore so often—as if in her day dreams she was 
trying to catch a glimpse of some better land— 
some land of promise—“Yes,” she murmered to 
herself—“I see a hand you cannot see, that beck¬ 
ons me away—I hear a voice you cannot hear, 
that says I must not stay ”—True, there is no 
charm in the world for me—I shall have no cred¬ 
it in giving it up— the miserable world full of 
vanity and trouble-full of selfishness and hollow- 
heartedness-Oh! even the rich and gay wordling 
must feel its emptiness at times, if they stop in 



12 


THE FAIR MAID OF CONNAUGHT. 


tlie whirl for one moment to reflect—and then 
the bitter disappointments that they often have 
to endure, must bring their own sharp sting.” 
“ Try and be strong yourself dear Eily, and give 
up Kory,” said Kathleen—“The conscientious 
effort to detach yourself from such an unworthy 
object, must bring its own reward. Believe that 
our dear father must know what is best for his 
children, whom he has guarded with such prec¬ 
ious care, ever since the death of our dear moth¬ 
er.” 

The girls were motherless, and there w T as four 
years difference in their age, Eily being only six¬ 
teen, while Kathleen had just passed her twenti¬ 
eth birtli-day, and her quiet manner and reflective 
mind made her seem older still. Their strong 
old father had taken the place of both parents, 
and stood in his own home, like some great oak- 
firm and unbending ’tis true, but sturdy and 
strong in his intregrity, and undying love for his 
two daughters.-John Daly was made of that stuff 
that never bent to the will of another-conscious 
of his own integrity and rectitude of purpose, he 
pursued the even tenor of his way, without turn¬ 
ing to the right or left, or consulting anyone. 
His wife Eileen, was very emotional, like Eily, 
but even more dependent; she clung to her great 
strong-hearted husband like a timid child, and to 



THE FAIR MAID OF CONNAUGHT. 


13 


see this stern man come out of himself and min¬ 
ister to every little want of a delicate wife, with 
the gentle kindness of an unselfish woman, was 
indeed wonderful, and gratifying to all who be¬ 
held it. 

Eileen Daly was always frail and delicate, but 
one winter she declined more rapidly, and when 
March came and the crocusses were just peeping 
out, she died suddenly one day, leaving her two 
little girls to their father’s care. 

He was faithfully devoted to them, but stern 
and exacting; so they grew up—loving, but fear¬ 
ing him. 





14 


THE FAIR MAID OF CONNAUGHT. 


CHAPTER II 

U I knew by the smoke that so gracefully curled 
Around the green elms , that a cottage was near; 
And I said if there'speace to be foutid in this world\ 
The heart that is humble might hope for it here." 

Elm cottage, on Edgebraugh Farm, so called 
from tlie number of beautiful elm trees that sur¬ 
rounded it, was about four miles from Ballinasloe. 
It was a long, low, rambling house, with large 
rooms, and many doors and windows, not certain¬ 
ly of the most modern construction, but it had 
been in the family for many generations, and 
each member and possessor having found it per¬ 
fectly comfortable within, and adapted to all their 
wants, had not cared to enlarge it, or adorn the 
exterior. It had descended to John Daly from 
his grand-parents—he was not a man to spend 
any money foolishly, and as the most thorough 
comfort always reigned within, he was quite sat- 



THE FAIR MAID OF CONNAUGHT. 


15 


isfied. It might, with just as much propriety, 
have been called “Rose Cottage,” from the abun¬ 
dance of that lovely flower with which the garden 
was filled, and all the walls were covered with 
the clustering rose. 

But it matters not—it would have been quite 
as sweet by any other name, for it was truly the 
abode of peace and happiness, and that cheerful 
contentment, which is always the greatest wealth. 

A large square porch, supported by pillars 
made of trees with the branches cut off close, and 
covered with wood-bine and cluster-roses was the 
entrance to the “Home.” 

The first room as you entered was the parlor, 
a large rather shadowy room, filled with old fash¬ 
ioned furniture, and the walls literally covered 
with pictures worked in wool—all sacred subjects, 
and executed by Kathleen and Eily while with 
the sisters in Balanisloe, and some worked bv the 
mother, and a few by their grandmother—all 
treasured most carefully. An old-fashioned pi¬ 
ano stood in one corner, for both the girls were 
fond of music, and not only played well, but pos¬ 
sessed very sweet voices. 

But the inner room was the life and sunshine 
of the house. Here Eily trilled her sweetest, 
merriest cadences—Kathleen often joining in with 
her rich contralto, and the canary trying always 




16 


THE FAIR MAID OF CONNAUGHT. 


to out-do them all. Here the roses climbed into 
the windows, and all said “Welcome ”—all 
breathed peace and joy. 

Here was the home room, where they all as¬ 
sembled, and chatted, lived and loved; and here 
it was that in the hush of the evening, when the 
only sounds heard were the distant low of the 
cattle, and the twittering birds—they gathered 
together for the evening prayer. Here John 
Daly offered up his nightly supplication for him¬ 
self and his children, as he had done all his mar¬ 
ried life. It was in this room that he always 
blessed his children before separating for the 
night. 

Beyond this again was a very large kitchen 
where they took their meals on one side of the 
room by along low window, where the roses and 
honey-suckles climed up together, and interlacing, 
formed the most beautiful screen that could be 
imagined. Winny, the only female servant, who 
had lived with the family over forty years, was 
generally engaged in the back-ground with the 
culinary preparations which w r ere performed with 
that neatness and skill, which were peculiarly 
her own. 

Winnifred Walsh was a character in herself, 
and so I must devote a little time and space to 
her definition. She came from Connemara, and 



THE FAIR MAID OF CONNAUGHT. 


17 


her age was very uncertain; judging from the 
time that she first came to the Daly family—she 
must have been fifty-five—yet at times, she was 
so light-hearted, that you could not believe her 
to be so old. She was rather under-sized, and 
when you first glanced at her, your impression 
was, that she was ill-favored; but in spite of a 
very large mouth, and a dim gray eye-there was 
such a wonderful goodness of expression—that 
you looked—wondered—looked again, and liked 
her. 

There was the true stamp of goodness, and in 
every word she uttered, the ring of tlie true coin. 

Although she could neither read nor write, she 
was in every sense of the word, tlie truest Chris¬ 
tian; bearing about her tlie visible impress of 
Christ’s love in all her words and actions; so 
much so, that all respected her, and wished to 
imitate one, whose life was that of sincere and 
unaffected piety. Winny had never been known 
to speak ill of anyone, and whether she heard of 
weal or woe—it was always “ Glory be to God ”— 
throwing up her hands at the same time, as 
though to praise God for all Ilis acts. “ The 
aisy way is always the best” Winny would say 
to her children as she called them, and Kathleen 
and Eily had fewer children’s squabbles than us¬ 
ual.—Winny’s working attire was peculiar-a dark 





18 


THE FAIR MAID OF CONNAUGHT. 


blue woolen petticoat, witli her purple calico 
tucked up and pinned behind; large list shoes 
adorned her feet, and a scrupulously white ’ker¬ 
chief pinned across her bosom. She never wore 
a cap as is usual with the women of the country- 
but her hair combed back smooth across her brow 
and gathered up in a little knot behind; it was 
brown hair slightly silvered with gray-and was 
soft and fine as that of an infant—her hands too, 
although she had done much hard work in her 
life, were quite slender and shapely. John Daly 
always said of Winny—“If the shell is not pretty, 
the kernel is sweet”—and it was soshe was 
truly good, and was much cherished aad beloved 
by all the family, and was looked upon not so 
much in the light of a servant, as a friend of the 
house-hold.— 

I must not forget to introduce one other of 
John Daly’s retainer’s, and these two constituted 
the staff of house servants. 

Pat Mc’Gorlien, was Winny’s nephew, a lad of 
eighteen years of age, strong, healthy, good hu¬ 
mored, and good hearted. He drove the car, at¬ 
tended to the horses and cows, the garden, and in 
fact all the jobbing work that was to be done. 
Tall, and well formed, his face presented an odd 
mixture of shrewdness and innocence; his lar^e 
light blue eyes were always wide open, and so 



THE FAIR MAID OF CONNAUGHT. 


19 


was liis moutli generally speaking, displaying 
when he smiled an even row of very white teeth; 
his nose, which is the most important feature in 
the human face for bestowing, or taking away 
strong character of expression, stood out in a 
straight line from the middle of his face, and I 
cannot describe it more graphically than to say, 
that if his course through life w T as always gov¬ 
erned by his nose, that it would be thoroughly 
straight forward. When any one was speaking 
to him, he would look most persistently and unde- 
viatingly into one corner of the ceiling, as though 
trying to solve some geometrical problem there. 
This was Pat’s physiognomy. His heart was in 
the right place, and as fresh as his face; while 
like Winny he was honest, true and faithful. 

John Daly could have lived in much better 
style had he chosen to do so; but he did not be¬ 
lieve i:i making a show to please the world. lie 
was contented if his children were comfortable 
and happy, and he would rather give two or 
three thousand pounds to help build a church, or 
endow a convent, than to waste it in any way to 
gain the applause or admiration of the multitude. 
Ilis mind was very much exercised, and his 
heart troubled at the present time, by the miser¬ 
able influence that Pory O’llare had gained over 
the heart cf innocent Elly, and he had strictly for- 



20 


THE FAIR MAID OF CONNAUGHT. 


bidden him to visit the farm, or Eily to see him. 

Dory O’Hare was one of the weakest, most 
irresolute characters that one could possibly 
describe; he would have liked to have been some¬ 
thing, if only some one could have watched him 
carefully—nerved him—brought him to the start¬ 
ing point, and kept him there until something 
was achieved—constantly making good resolves— 
he was as constantly shifting from them—so that 
at twenty-six he could only look back upon more 
than one-third of his life passed in wavering and 
uncertain steps, that had led him nowhere in par¬ 
ticular, and had gained him nothing. 

Ibis love for Eily, if you could give it that 
name, was of the most selfish kind-unable and 
unwilling to make the least sacrifice for her. 
John Daly, with his strong good sense, could 
not brook the idea, for one single instant, of his 
sweet little innocent, confiding Eily, being ship¬ 
wrecked in this cruel manner upon such a wretched 
quicksand as this Dory O’Ilare; and he fully 
resolved to use not only his paternal influence, 
but authority, to bring her safely anchored in 
some port, where her comfort and happiness 
would be secured, and where he could, while 
living, watch over her with that vigilant eye of 
tender care, that only a fond parent can exercise. 



THE FAIR MAID OF CONNAUGHT. 


21 


CHAPTER III. 

Tlie Parting. 

“ One touch of nature makes the whole world kin” 

It was an “incense breathing morn” in the 
sweet and flowery month of Jnne—w r lien Eily 
prepared for a 'walk after breakfast. 

Three times did she run tip to her little bed¬ 
room to arrange her dress, and smooth again her 
luxuriant tresses, which would, in spite of all care, 
bound about in all the abundance of wealth, rip¬ 
pling up here, and curling dov/n there, until the 
little one had to laugh, herself, at the determina¬ 
tion each lock showed of going its own way. 
How, it was to tie her hat ribbons more neatly 
and coqnettishly under her little fat chin—now, 
to smooth her skirt and arrange her scarf-and 
lastly, to fasten a few choice rose-buds in her 
bosom.—Finally as there seemed to be nothing 
more that could be accomplished in the way of 



22 THE FAIR MAID OF CONNAUGIIT. 

improvement, she descended the stairs, stopping 
to caress her pet kitten, who looked wonderingly 
at the unusual amount of affection lavished on 
her; then hovering over the canary’s cage and 
trilling gently a soft lay, at which the canary 
shrieked wildly,—hopping madly about from 
perch to perch, with his head first on one side 
and then on the other; then meeting Winny, who 
had been following her all the morning with 
wistful eyes and anxious brow, she burst into 
tears.— 

“ May God direct you to the best my wean,” 
said Winny following her to the door—“ God 
bless you Mavourneen,” and the little one was 
folded in the old woman’s arms before she set 
out. 

What a lovely morning it was! The air was 
redolent with sweets, such as cloy not the senses 
or satiate the heart. Great nature seemed to op¬ 
en her arms and say—“Here my child, partake 
of all my rich gifts and enjoy them. I shower 
my innocent enjoyments on all without prefer¬ 
ence, that all may live, and love, and deliglit.”- 
The clear blue vault of Heaven was cloudless, 
and the air rich with the sweetest odors—purified 
by the healthfulness of the country. 

Eily tripped along lightly with all the buoyan¬ 
cy of youth, with a happy and innocent heart.— 



TI1E FAIR MAID OF CONNAUGHT. 


23 


Tlie slight cloud of care, that seemed to have 
rested for a while over her childish face and gay 
spirits, was lifted and carried away by the sweet¬ 
ness of the atmosphere, and the rich and varied 
beauty of the scene. 

The grass was as ever in “ Erin’s Isle,” of the 
brightest, richest green. The hawthorn was out 
in its full luxuriance—every daisy seemed to lift 
its head in star-like beauty, to welcome the sweet 
little one, and the hare-bell shook its tremulous 
flowers—and all seemed to Eily to ask a mute, 
yet questioning “Well”?—to which her heart 
could only answer—still—farewell—on she sped, 
her feet scarce touching the ground, her bloom 
deepening, and her eye gathering more earnest¬ 
ness—when a sudden turn in the road brought 
her to a lane, whose rural beauty was enough to 
entice any one to seek it, and linger long; where 
nature seemed to have laid some cunning plan to 
ornament this spot of sylvan loveliness where in 
the human heart might love to rest. A perfect 
avenue was formed of the Elms and Ash trees 
—whose branches seemed almost to touch above. 
The soft, rich grass was only disturbed by a little 
foot-path running through, while each side was 
bordered with the wild primrose ,violets,and hy¬ 
acinths with all their odorous beauty—till some 
parts looked like a gay parterre. 





21 


TIIE FAIR MAID OF CONNAUGHT. 


With childish glee Eily could not resist stop¬ 
ping at intervals to gather these sweet flowers of 
which she was so fond, and with that youthful 
desire to grasp the beautiful and the enjoyment 
of the hour, while passing down the stream of 
life—she stopped—gathered—ran on—stopped 
again, and culled her sweets until she was liter¬ 
ally laden with a wreath of nature’s choicest gifts, 
her pockets, arms and hands filled. Running 
on quickly, she saw before her, at the end of the 
lane, in front of the hawtliorne hedge, Rory 
O’llare! There he stood—his hat pulled partly 
over his eyes—an expression half pleased, half 
defiant in his face—indolence in his attitude— 
shifting his position uneasily—glancing at Eily, 
who ran towards him quickly—holding out her 
hand frankly—exclaiming—while a blush passed 
over her ingenuous face—“Oh! Rory! I am so 
glad to see you once more—though, it must be 
the last time,” she added sorrowfully. lie 
grasped her hand feebly, and held it in his— 
“Why must it be the last time Eily ? I care more 
for you than any girl in the world.” “Do you?” 
said Eily, looking away sadly—the thought 
flashed across her mind, though she scarcely 
understood it herself—so unwilling are we to 
believe that which is disagreeable; that perhaps 
he did not care for anyone—not even herself; it 





THE FAIR MAID OF CONNAUGHT. 


25 


really did look like it. lie had never made the 
*/ 

slightest exertion to settle himself, to do anything 
to win her, to make himself deserving of her love, 
or the respect and confidence of her dear father 
—a great many thoughts crowded together 
rapidly in her mind, as she stood there weak and 
wavering, and looking so utterly irresolute and 
miserable. 

Eily was very young and guileless, but she 
seemed to grow suddenly many years older in a 
very short space of time. “What are you going 
to do Rory ?” said Eily quietly. “I don’t hardly 
know,” said Rory looking with great uncertainty 
over the hedge, as though he might find some¬ 
thing in the space beyond. Eily was silent—her 
heart beat quickly—she scarcely thought she 
ought to be there, as she was now—although it 
was only to say good-bye; and it must come to an 
end quickly. She stood there sadly—she had let 
the flowers fall to the ground, and Rory’s hand 
too—she had let go. 

Possibly, she thought that a hand that would 
give her no support, was not worth keeping—and 
the devotion that she thought she felt for him 
was fast flickering, and dying out to the last 
spark. Still if she had thought it was her duty 
to stand by such a being, who was not able to be 
even a half of anything, she would have done so, 



20 


THE FAIR MAID OF CONNAUGHT. 


she was too good, and loyal, and true, to draw 
back from wliat she could do consistently and 
rightly to save anyone; but the commandments 
were ever in Eily’s heart, engraven there, and 
the one with promise above all others, and the 
thought of her father in all his integrity and 
goodness-his faithful love, and tender care—made 
the contrast still more odious. At this moment, 
when filial love and duty were struggling for the 
mastery, the temptation was becoming weaker 
and weaker. 

Rory felt painfully Eily’s silence, and wished 
to make one more appeal. 

“My people don’t do what is right by me 
Eily”—said he, “and sometimes I think—I 
sliould’nt wonder—if I went to America.”—“ Is 
not that very far off? said Eily gently—as though 
he were telling her something out of a book. 
Eily’s geographical knowledge did not extend 
quite so far, and it seemed to her like going to 
some great wilderness.—Iler hat had fallen off, 
and she caught it by the ribbons. Iler lovely 
hair fell over her face, and around her shoulders 
in a wreath of golden waves—the sunbeams 
seemed to stoop through the slight opening in 
the trees to kiss the fair brow—her blue muslin 
dress fluttered in the morning breeze, and the 
sweet face upturned in its childish wonderment, 



TIIE FA III MAID OF CONNAUGHT. 


27 

seemed more angel tlian mortal, in all its sim¬ 
plicity and innocence. 

“ It seems to me that yon take my going very 
easy, and don’t care liow far off it might be.” 
“ I cannot help it Rory, and wherever you would 
do the best, would make me the happiest.” “ I 
mind me of girls,” said Rory boldly, “ who would 
go with a fellow.” 

Had a random shot pierced her heart, for one 
moment she could not have suffered more anguish; 
—her slight form grew taller and taller, as she 
drew herself up in her wounded pride and dignity 
—her face grew paler and paler—till to Rory’s 
frightened gaze she seemed to be a spirit from 
another world. “ Do you—mean—that—Rory?” 
said Eily in almost a whisper—“ Do you mean— ” 
—here sobs and tears choked her utterance.—She 
stepped back several steps, putting her hands be¬ 
fore her, as though to shut out some terrible sDlit. 

7 0 O 

Rory had sunk back against the hawthornc 
hedge—pushed his hat back, and was gazing at 
her in wild amazement. “I mean,” said he, “if 
we were married and all was right—-what else 

CO 

would I mean sliure;” still she stepped back and 
put out her hands before her helplessly. 

“ Is that the way you say good-bye to a fellow ? ” 
said Rory.” 

She let her hands fall—stood still one moment, 



28 


THE FAIR MAID OF CONNAUGHT. 


and said softly—“good-bye Rory,” turned slowly 
round, and tottered rather than walked, to the 
end of tlie lane. Then resting against a tree, she 
quietly put on her bat, and stepped out on to the 
road. 



THE FAIR MAID OF CONNAUGHT. 


29 


CHAPTER IV. 

The summer passed uneventfully, quietly and 
pleasantly; Eily drooped a little sometimes, but 
was sustained by Kathleen’s brave spirit, and 
strong will. The autumn was ushered in, with 
bright sunshiny days, and long lingering twilights, 
and great preparations were being made through¬ 
out the country for the great annual fair, held in 
Ilallinaloe during the first six days of October. 
The great display of black cattle, horses and sheep 
was always very fine, but this year it was thought 
that it would exceed all others; the farmers had 
been so successful in the raising of their stock.— 
John Daly’s cattle were always considered some 
of the finest, and he watched for the fair to open 
with great eagerness, and as he always took his 
daughters ivitli him, and they were ever the sub¬ 
ject of great admiration—of course, his paternal 
pride was very much gratified. 





30 


THE FAIR MAID OF CONNAUGHT. 


At last the 1st of October arrived and Kathleen 
and Eily were donning their best attire. Pat had 
been currying the horses,-cleaning his boots-soap¬ 
ing his face, and brushing his hair since day-light, 
interrupted occasionally by "Winny’s quiet remark, 
u "Why Pat boy! Sliure you must think you are 
going to find somebody at the fair that ye like 
better than yerself,” at which playful sally, Pat 
would grin, and then scrub away.—At last the 
car was at the door—the horse was gay with rib¬ 
bons—while Pat’s hat was adorned with a green 
band and a bunch of shamrock.—John Daly stern 
and stiff, handed his lovely daughters into the 
car, and then stepped in himself. Pat touched 
the horse, and they flew off along a smooth road, 
and all seemed happy and bright. Eilv, it is true, 
looked slightly pensive and pale, and kept her 
secret to herself, though she might suffer.— 
Kathleen’s steel colored silk and white hat with a 
long plume, only served to enhance a beauty so 
particularly rare and uncommon, while her simple 
elegance added to her distinguished appearance. 

The drive, and the morning air brought the 
color into Eily’s face, and she soon was chatting 
gaily; her white dress and blue ribbons fluttered 
in the breeze, and her father looked satisfied and 
smiled gravely. Kathleen appeared even on the 
car, as though she were seated on a throne, and 



THE FAIR MAID OF CONNAUGHT. 


C>1 
JL 

tliis day slie seemed to look more queenly tlian ever. 
Soon tliey readied tlie fair ground, and were 
mingling with tlie gay tlirong who were fast as¬ 
sembling. Cordial greetings met them on every 
side, for they were much respected and beloved 
through the country. Eily’s face sparkled with ‘ 
happy and innocent enjoyment, while Kathleen's 
earnest face and grave dignity, only served as a 
grand contrast. 

“ Kathleen,” said her father, “ there is Lord 

Don't you re¬ 
member Guy ? ” “ I do,” replied Kathleen, “very 
well.” A bright flush suffused her face, as his 
name w^as mentioned. lie had offered himself iii 
marriage three years before, and had been re¬ 
jected; but he had sworn never to forget, and 
always to love her.—Just then the two men 
passed; Lord Eversly staring boldly at the beauti¬ 
ful girl. “ I say, Guy, who is that beauty? She 
has a brow that would grace a coronet. By jove! 

I think I never saw anything so grand even dur¬ 
ing a London season.” 

“I suppose not,” said Guy. “Kathleen Daly 
would stand alone in her jieerless grace and 
beauty among a million London belles.” 

Ila! Guy, “you must have been struck.” 

“ Perhaps so,” said Guy, quietly; deeper indeed 
than anyone knew. 


Eversly with Guy Dominick. 



32 


THE FAIR MAID OF CONNAUGHT. 


“ Well! I should not mind having a flirtation 
witli the damsel. She looks like a calla lilly with 
that white hat and plume. I think I could woo 
and win her, and spend my time pleasantly/’ 

“Yon”—said Guy between his teeth,—“ you 
might as well try to pick a star out of the 
heavens as to win Kathleen Daly, much less trifle 
with her.” “ I have wooed gayer girls than that,” 
said Eversly. u I have shot at higher marks, and 
bagged my game. I say, Guy, you must intro¬ 
duce me.” 

Guy Dominick's face grew white with sup¬ 
pressed rage, but he did not dare refuse, lest his 
deep feeling should be seen, and his motives 
judged mean and contemptible; so they wandered 
through the crowd until they approached the 
Daly's and the introduction was over; Guy’s dis¬ 
tressed face and pleading manner plainly saying, 
Kathleen, I could not help this. 

Lord Eversly bowed and addressed Kathleen 
with that well-bred, easy assurance, that marked 
so plainly what his success had been, among his 
own circles in England, yet when Kathleen re¬ 
turned his bow, in her own stately manner, and 
quiet grace, and opened wide those dark gray 
eyes, meeting his impertinent gaze with calm as¬ 
tonishment; he felt for the first time in life, that 
lie had met at last a superior being; something 



TIIF FAIR MAID OF CONNAUGHT. 


higher, purer, better; something out of his reach, 
that lie could not penetrate, or deline, or make 
the slightest impression upon. In vain did he 
speak of the weather, and gaze admiringly in her 
face. In vain did he criticise the cattle, and ask 
her if she was fond of horses. In vain did he 
shrug his shoulders and ask her if she had ever 
been to the races. The same calm, wondering ex¬ 
pression met him. The same half-scornful pity 
played round her mouth. Dignity alone forbid¬ 
ding the utterance of words, whose expression 
was plainly on her lips. 

Never were whiskers and mustache so merci¬ 
lessly pulled, as his were, in his nervous rage, 
and being so completly nonplussed in his vain ar¬ 
rogance and conceit. Never were gloves put on 
and pulled off so often, and in vain did he switch 
his cane, and wish himself in all sorts of hot 
places. There was a slight response from the 
u Calla Lily.” She turned her white throat, 
bowed and looked on in great beauty and silent 
wonder. 

But in the midst of Lord Eversly's helpless 
despair, the approach of Mr. Daly, with young 
Thorne, from Athlone, came to his rescue. John 
Daly having properly introduced Mr. Thorne to 
his daughters, turned to Lord Eversly to ask him 
what he thought of the fair. 



34 


THE FAIR MAID OF CONNAUGHT. 


“ Yery good,” said Lord Eversly nervously. U I 
am quite pleased. By the by Mr. Daly, I under¬ 
stand that you have some very fine cattle, here, 
will you show them to me?” “By all means, with 
pleasure,” said Mr. Daly, proud to display what 
he prized next to his daughters. “Come this way 
Lord Eversly, and I will show you the finest 
milch cows on the grounds.” 

Bowing farewell to Kathleen and her sister, 
Lord Eversly wandered about with John Daly 
until they found the spot set apart for his display 
of cattle. These he showed with a true-hearted 
farmer’s pride, dwelling on each good point 
with emphasis. They then trotted along to look 
at the horses, and brought up by the sheep, which 
w r ere remarkably fine this year. “ I’ll warrant a 
good many of these will pass and be sold for 
Devonshire mutton this year, eh!” said John 
Daly. 

“ Do you think so—? ” said Lord Eversly smil¬ 
ing grimly—“ Perhaps so ”—Lord Eversly was 
absently thinking of the woman who had so 
shaken him on his pedestal. Ko Englishman 
likes to be nonplussed, and it had made him 
moody and gloomy, and he did not know well 
what to do with himself. lie slipped off at last 
from Mr. Daly, and wandered about by himself, 
sticking his hands in his pockets, which is always 



THF FAIR MAID OF CONNAUGHT. 


a great comfort and relief to an Englishman when 
in trouble of mind, or when making any calcula¬ 
tions, or when discomfited in any way. His, 
brow was contracted, and the more he thought, 
the deeper his hands dived into his pockets. II& 
did not like the idea of being shaken on his pedes¬ 
tal —and lie remembered Guy Dominick’s scath¬ 
ing remark You might as well try to pick a 
star out of the heavens as to try to win Kathleen 
Daly?' What right had this young Irishman to 
make such a remark to him —a person of his. 
social standing ?—and then what made it more 
humiliating still was that it did seem as though lie 
had met with something out of his reach. lie 
wished now that he had not wasted his time in 
running up from Dublin to this confounded fair, 
where he had encountered such a defeat. It 
really was sadly mortifying. IIow could it be 
possible that after so many successful seasons in 
London where every beauty seemed to smile upon 
him, and all the mammas were so cordial and at¬ 
tentive, and all looked and acted as though they 
would be glad to have him for a son-in-law;—for 
Lord Eversly’s estates were unincumbered, and 
his title was not from yesterday, but dated from 
generations back. How could it be possible that 
this country girl should receive him with such 
cool indifference, and assume such airs? Yes, it 




THE FAIR MAID OF CONNAUGHT. 


30 

was decidedly airish, and confoundedly stupid, 
and lie “had been shaken on his pedestal;” and 
the hands came out of his pockets, and began 
pulling the whiskers again. It was a problem; 
and Lord Eversly did not possess sufficient math¬ 
ematical talent to solve it. 



THE FAIR MAID OF CONNAUGHT. 


o ^ 

3 ^ 


CHAPTER Y. 

Leaving Lord Eversly to solve tlie problem 
that liad so shaken bis British pride, and wound¬ 
ed his self-love; we will return to the two girls 
and Mr. Thorn. 

Michael Thorn belonged to that type of Irish 
well-to-do farmers, whose pastoral life of Arcadian 
simplicity and innocency is, perhaps, unequalled 
at the present day in any other portion of the 
globe. His ancestors, from one generation to 
another back, had always been farmers—tilling 
their own land, and enjoying modest and inde¬ 
pendant competency crowned by good consciences 
and light and happy hearts. 

lie was the third of seven sons, who all lived 
at home in the old paternal homestead, although 
two were married, and had families of their own. 
Yet they were all united in the bond of good fel¬ 
lowship, and that strong and abiding law of 



38 


THE FAIR MAID OF CONNAUGHT. 


“ Kith and Kin ” nowhere so beautifully illustra¬ 
ted, and adhered to, as in Erin’s Green Isle, and 
her own faithful people. The “boys, ” as they 
w r ere still called, all helped on the farm, and vied 
with each other in being good to the old people, 
who were now in declining years, and had given 
up almost all interest to their children. 

They were fine manly specimens of young 
men, being nearly all six feet in height, and 
broad shouldered, and deep chested in proportion. 
But Michael rather excelled them all in his 
masculine beauty. Ilis stature and fine bearing 
would have made him a splendid martial com¬ 
mander, had he followed a military career—while 
his keen intelligence, and natural flow of rhetoric 
would have enabled him to make a good special 
pleader in any of the courts, had he been destined 
to follow the legal profession. But no such rest¬ 
less ambition disturbed the equanimity of his 
fresh heart and contented mind, and in his in¬ 
genuous face you saw only the desire for honest 
labor and daily bread, a good wife and happy 
family. The smooth fair brow was not wrinkled 
by any of the “eatingcares of life,” and the deep, 
clear blue eye spoke only of strict integrity and 
honest worth. ITis vigorous and manly beauty 
bore ample testimony to the purity of his life, 
while his intelligent conversation showed that al- 



TIIE FAIR MAID OF CONNAUGHT. 


39 ' 


though his education had been limited, yet he 
clearly understood all he knew. Kathleen had 
received him with stately though gracious kind¬ 
ness, and Eily’s blushing shyness, only made her 
appear more lovely in his eyes. They wandered 
oil to seek some refreshments—all on the most 
cordial and easy footing, as the two families had 
been old friends for many years. At last Mr. 
Daly joined them; and after Mr. Thorn had taken 
Eily to look at a very beautiful pony, Pat was 
called with the car, and they got ready to return 
home. “Get in,Thorn, and come home with us 
to supper; I will send you into town again to¬ 
night if you must return.” “ I fear I must,” 
said Michael, “ but I shall like the drive home 
with you all the same.” 

The horses sniffed the air, and travelled faster 
than in coming. They w r ere all tired when they 
reached home, where Winny had a delightful 
old-fashioned supper prepared for them, and 
where they enjoyed some mirth and pleasant con¬ 
versation before parting for the night. 

“ Come over soon and see us, Thorn ” said Mr. 
Daly, “ we are always glad to see you.” 

“ Thank you, I will.” 



40 


TIIE FAIR MAID OF CONNAUGHT. 


CHAPTER VI 

An old fashioned Wooing 

Love is a little fragile flower, 

That in the garden of the heart, 

Springs up unbidden in an hour. 

The flower grows in pensive beauty, 
Without a thought or care ’ 

Until its perfume softly rising, 

Tells that the flower is there. 

Eily’s slumbers that night were somewhat dis¬ 
turbed by a vision of manly grace and beauty 
that flourished about in her dreams, and flitted 
here and there with her in walks, and in woods, 
and groves; and only vanished with her waking, 
to her great disgust and disappointment. She 
threw open her window to breathe the fresh 
morning air, and as the sweet roses brushed in 
and kissed her lips, and shook off the dew drops, 



THE FAIR MAID OF CONNAUGHT. 


41 


and tlie whole scene lay before her in radiant 
beauty, she thought again, that life was still, with 
all its ups and downs, very beautiful, and very 
enjoyable; and that, perhaps, there w T as some¬ 
thing very bright in store for her; and a great 
many visions of earthly happiness and comfort, 
ease and prosperity, and multiplied blessings 
crowded in upon her mind as she sat down in 
the early morning sunshine to brush out her love¬ 
ly and luxuriant hair. She brushed energetically? 
and the exercise and friction seemed to restore 
the vigor of the brain, and the tone of her 
thoughts. She found herself wondering how she 
could possibly ever have tolerated Rory, and 
whether it was probable that Michael Thorne 
w r ould take a fancy to such a shy little thing as 
herself. "With that possibility growing in her 
mind came such a train of glorious and bright 
imaginings for the future, that it was long before 
she had gathered up her tresses and prepared to 
descend to breakfast. 

Kathleen and her father had evidently been 
having a close and earnest conversation, of which 
Eily felt, that she had been the subject. It is 
strange how we sometimes feel these things and in 
this case it was so. Mr Daly had been speaking 
very seriously to Kathleen about his wishes on the 
subject, expressing very earnestly what a satis- 



42 


THE FAIR MAID OF CONNAUGHT. 


faction and comfort it would be to liis father’s 
heart if such a good young man as Michael 
Thorn would take a fancy to his sweet little moth¬ 
erless Eily, and as she entered, the conversation 
ran thus:—- 

“And then,” continued Mr. Daly, “Thorn 
has so many sons at home that Michael could live 
here, and Eily need never leave her own old 
home. I’m sure she would feel like a fish out 
of water in any other.” 

“Yes,” continued Kathleen, “ that would be 
nice for dear Eily, and a pleasant comfort to you 
dear father, to have in your old age, a good son 
like Michael to lean upon—and then—dear father, 
I can go to my bridal.” 

“All, yes, Cushla Machree, I know very well 
where your heart is, and I should not have kept 
you in the world pining so long for your rest, if 
I had not wished to see Eily settled first. You 
know you have always taken the mother’s place. 
“ I should liked to have offered the first blossom 
of my youth to our dear Lord,” said Kathleen, 
sadly. “ You will do so,” said her father gravely. 
“ The first fresh bloom has never been brushed 
off by contact with the world. Truly Kathleen 
Mavourneen you have kept yourself “ unspotted 
from the world.” “ I hope so, father, my heart 
has never been in it,” 



THE FAIR MAID OF CONNAUGnT. 


43 


Eilys appearance at this moment, all radiant 
with hopeful smiles and blushes stopped the con¬ 
versation. 

“Kathleen,” said Eily, after awhile. “What 
are you going to do to day ? I want you to go to 
the woods with me.” 

“Well, Colleen, we’ll go,” said Kathleen. 
Accordingly, they set out after breakfast, taking 
by chance, the road that led to the lane, down 
which Eily had hidden farewell to her worth¬ 
less lover. “Not there Kathleen,” said Eily. 
“Not there;” growing pale as she spoke.—Why 
not Colleen” said Kathleen gravely. “No mat¬ 
ter,” said Eily. “ Come this way;” quickly turn¬ 
ing as she spoke, in an opposite direction.—Then 
they found themselves on the road to Athlone, 
and before they had gone very far, who should 
they meet but Michael Thorn, standing before 
them, unmistakable joy shining in his honest face, 
when he saw the two sisters advancing toward 
him. Cordial greetings passed, when Kathleen 
exclaimed: “ If you don’t mind, Eily, I will turn 
round and go on to Ballinasloe, as I wish to visit 
the Sisters to-day.”—They neither of them looked 
as if they minded it much to be left alone; on 
the contrary, they seemed so entirely absorbed 
in each other, much to Kathleen’s great amuse¬ 
ment. They all turned and took the road to 




44 


THE FAIR MAID OF CONXAITGIIT. 


Ballinasloe, but Eily wearying a little of tlie high 
road, and expressing a desire for some beautiful 
wild flowers in a wood close by—Kathleen told 
them to ramble about in the woods, and that she 
would continue her walk to the town alone, and 
return to dinner. 

They wandered on, hand in hand,—Michael 
with tender care, clearing away every obstacle in 
her path. The weather was rather warm, a sort 
of dreamy day, the sunshine glinted in through 
the branches of the trees, throwing flickering rays 
across the path, and darting here and there in 
glancing glee. The birds sang their love songs 
over head, and the flowers lent all their sweet 
odors for the passing hour, and this was indeed 
the atmosphere of love. 

In such spots Cupid is always lying in ambush 
with his quivers; and I have no doubt that on this 
remarkable occasion, he was at the top of some 
tree taking sure aim. 

Eily darted about with the shy grace of a fawn, 
gathering flowers, mosses and ferns, as often re¬ 
turning with innocent confidence, and a rising 
blush, to place again her little white hand in 
Michael’s broad palm. There certainly was in the 
mute grasp of that honest hand, a world of spark¬ 
ling and bestowing protection; and Eily felt a 
decided restful feeling, bringing strength and 




THF FAIR MAID OF CONNAUGHT. 


45 


calm to her young heart, that had lately been 
troubled by emotions of a most unquiet nature. 
They wandered on, till they came to a cool, de¬ 
licious spring which sprang from a rock, around 
which the ferns and lichens seemed of a richer 
green. 

Eily stooped down in childish glee, and making 
cups out of the leaves, drank, and made Michael 
quaff the cool water from one of her newly invented 
drinking cups.—Michael never grew weary, and 
Eily’s confiding happiness ever on the increase, 
knew no alloy. A babbling brook arose from 
the spring, and w r andered along through the dark 
woods, curling and winding about in its silvery 
beauty—rippling on, and seeming to echo all 
their low and tender words. At last, after 
numerous turnings in and out—so happy that 
they knew no fatigue—Michael selected a lovely 
spot for Eily to rest awhile; here the brook took 
a sudden leap over some large rocks, making a 
sort of small cascade, tumbling down in white 
foam, and then disappearing for awhile under a 
large moss-covered stone. Here they rested, and 
listened to the music of the waters; Michael 
tenderly placing Eily on a seat of moss, under a 
wide-spreading alder tree, seated himself beside 
her. She had taken off her hat and filled it with 
flowers. She placed it on the ground, and com- 



43 


TIIE FAIIi MAID OF CONNAUGHT. 


menced playing witla the white foam of the 
brook, letting the water pass through her lingers 
laughing merrily. 

“ Are you tired Eily?” asked Michael. 

“Mo,” replied Eily, “I should like to stay here all 
day, but Kathleen will expect me home to dinner.” 

“I am always very happy with you Eily,” said 
Michael. 

“ Are you ? ” said Eily, looking trustingly into 
his face.— 

“Yes, I am, and I should like to make my 
happiness sure for life.” 

“ How ? ” said Eily, stopping her play with the 
water. 

“ By asking you one simple question.” 

“ What is that ? ” she said, looking at him 
wonderingly. 

“It is this,” said he taking her little hand in his 
own, and holding it fast. “ Will you be my own 
trite wife , Eily ? ” 

The blush rose and covered her face and neck, 
the eyes drooped, till the brown lashes lay on her 
rosy cheek. Ilcr bosom heaved with a wild, yet 
suppressed emotion, and when she raised her eyes 
to meet his tender gaze, and reply to his repeated 
question, they were filled with tears, and she 
answered softly— 

“ I would like to be , Michael.” 

“Would you Mavoumeen? Then you shall 



THE FAIR MAID OF CONNAUGHT. 


47 


be, and that right soon; ” and his ardent and im¬ 
petuous nature had carried him oil in imagination 
to the church, and he was carrying her home, a 
bride, his own. He sprang to his feet, and 
catching her by the hands, raised her gently, yet 
quickly—“ Say that again dear Eily, say that once 
more.” 

“ I have said it once, and forever,” said Eily, 
“and ’tis true.” 

“ All! and you will be true dear one, for life? 
You will never have cause to regret those words, 
for I'll be good and true to you Eily.” 

“ I know that. I feel it, I believe it, but had 
you not better speak to my father about it ? ” 

This day I'll settle it. Hover fear, Colleen.” 
Then with her little hand resting on his strong 
arm, and her little feet trying to keep pace with 
his manly strides, they wandered back again by 
the side of the babbling brook; but this time, the 
music of the waters was changed; they sang a 
sweet low song of satisfied, trusting hearts—of 
love and peaceful contentment and home. 
There seemed to be a spring in the ground upon 
which they trod; the birds sang a louder, merrier 
lay; the flowers bloomed more brightly; the secret 
of which was that two loving souls had melted 
into one and had found a great happiness. 




4S 


THE FAIR MAID OF CONNAUGHT. 


CHAPTER YII. 

There was but one shadow hovering over Eily’s 
brightened pathway, and that was the thought 
that Michael ought to know all about Rory 
O’TIare. "With the true instinct of a true woman, 
she wanted no concealments; she wished to start 
life with perfect trust and confidence; so that she 
might know exactly where she stood, and fear no 
shipwreck. She wondered what Michael did 
know, or what he had heard; but of this, she could 
gain no insight; and was groping helplessly about 
by herself in the dark. She felt that she would 
be happier and better satisfied if Michael knew 
that there had been an attachment, but that it was 
over, and they had parted forever. She felt at 
last that she would rather tell him herself. It 
would be much better that he should hear it from 
her own lips. lie could only have heard some of 
the neighbors gossiping; and not much of that; 
and it seemed to her ingenuous mind, that it was 



THE FAIR MAID OF CONNAUGHT. 


49 


a first and last paramount duty to tell liim tlie 
whole story. Having nerved and braced herself 
up to the point of confidential disclosure, Eily 
soon found an opportunity of unburdeniug her 
mind and heart. 

One evening Michael had lingered longer than 
usual, and Eily had followed him to the gate, to 
bid one more farewell, when the thought struck 
her that, perhaps, no more convenient opportunity 
would offer itself, to make the necessary con¬ 
fession. 

They stood by the gate, hand-in-hand, and 
Michael was telling her that he would be over 
earlier the next day, and that it would be only 
two weeks now before the wedding. 

“ That will be the happiest day of my life,” 
said Michael, “and I hope it will be the same to 
you Eily.” 

“ I hope so,” said Eily,“I feel so—but Michael 
—I have something to tell you before you go—■ 
or to ask you.” 

“ What is it dear ? ” 

“ Did you know Dory O’Hare ? ” 

“ I did,” said Michael—“ not very well. He 
was a worthless fellow, and the family were glad 
to send him to America—to see if he would bet¬ 
ter his fortunes there. He was not worth know¬ 
ing—There was nothing in him.” 



50 


TIIE FAIR MAID OF CONNAUGHT. 


“ No.—I suppose not ”—said Eily dreamily—■ 
“ I heard that he had gone away. Then after a 
pause she commenced again— 

“ Did you know that lie visited me ? ” 

“ Oh, j es; I heard that he was hanging about 
the home—I supposed it was to see you. Why 
not Colleen?—You are the prettiest lass in the 
country—everybody knows that; hut I heard that 
your father forbade him the house.” 

“ That is true,” said Eily, quite relieved to find 
that Michael knew so much, and yet, the hardest 
part of the task was yet to he done, and she 
scarcely knew how to word it. An ominous 
, silence fell upon them—neither spoke for a few 
moments, which seemed very long to poor Eily; 
the twilight was deepening—Michael had one 
hand upon the gate-latch, where it had been for 
the last half hour, hut he hated so to go, that the 
gate remained closed; the other hand clasped Eily^s 
hand, while she played nervously with her apron. 
She had been looking up at him, hut now her 
glance wandered up, through the trees, and out 
beyond into the empty space. 

u What is the matter, Eily ? What are you 
thinking of; the blushes rose over her brow and 
throat, but the twilight was deepening, and 
Michael did not see them. 

The moment had come at last—she must speak, 



THE FAIR MAID OF CONNAUGHT. 


51 


a lump was rising in lier throat, and lier voice 
trembled. 

“Did you ever think Michael, that I cared for 
Dory 1 — 

Michael had been looking down into her eyes, 
tryingto read her thoughts. 

“ Mo,”—said Michael firmly, in his deep voice 
—“I never thought so—I did not think you 
would waste your liking, on such a worthless 
fellow.” 

Here was a dilemma! Yv T hat should she do 
now ? What could she say ? If he had only 
thought that she had liked him, and that it was 
over—the task would have been finished. But 
now—she would have to find some other way, 
some other words, and poor Eily was sore op- 
jiressed, and in great perplexity. Her little 
fingers twitched and pulled at her apron still 
more nervously. 

“Would you mind it, Michael, if you thought 
I had ever cared for Dory ? ” said Eily, her lips 
quivering—“w r ould you mind it, if I told you I 
did like him—once ? Eily breathlessly waited for 
his answer. “Mo,” exclaimed Michael still 
more firmly—“ I should not mind it—it would 
not hurt me i:i the least—You may have had 
many fancies in your little head—many likings 
and dislikings, for aught I know— ljut they are all 




52 


THE FAIR MAID OF CONNAUGHT. 


•past —Yon liave told me that yon loved me, and 
I have believed you, because I know you to be 
good and true. You have given me your whole 
heart have you not Eily ? and we have pledged 
and plighted our troth, and that means , that we 
must go on trusting till the end of life.” 

The tears that stood in Eily’s eyes ran down 
her cheeks—but they were now tears of joy. The 
confession was over—she rested trustfully and 
confidingly on that great manly heart that knew 
no fear, no doubt. 

The twilight had deepened into dark—the 
quiet stars shone out, and blinked and winked, 
as mnch as to say, “It is all right now” 

One heart felt pressure of the hand,-one more 
—one last good night,-and the gate opened and 
swung to on its hinges.—The latch clicked—a 
slight form hurried up the gravel walk to the 
porch—the hall door closed—and all was hushed 
in silence—peace—and night. 



THE FAIR MAID OF CONNAUGHT. 


53 


CHAPTER VIII. 

THE WEDDING. 

The home was alive, and astir with the pre¬ 
parations for the wedding, for only a few days 
now intervened. Winny was up to her eyes and 
elbows in wedding cake. Pat was uproarious, 
and seemed disposed to turn summersaults. 
Kathleen stitched away with unwearying hands 
on frills and laces, and all sorts of pretty tilings. 

Eily was busy too, but seemed in a sort of 
dreamy liapjiiness, and Michael claimed a great 
deal of her time. John Daly was much occupied 
too, in examining his stock, and arranging every¬ 
thing in order, for it had been agreed that Michael 
Thorn should take charge of the farm, and live 
with them. 

The parish church was about one mile distant 
from the farm; it was a rather low stone building 
covered with ivy; with a low door, and long 
narrow windows. Here Father Blake officiated 




54 


THE FAIR MAID OF CONNAUGHT. 


and felt very liappy to tie the knot for Michael 
and Eily, as he had known them from early child¬ 
hood. 

The morning rose in unclouded splendor —it 
was rather warm, but a sweet balmy atmosphere, 
and the lovely blue of the sky w*as unbroken, save 
by occasional floating, light fleecy clouds, that 
passed over the blue in graceful sweeps, and 
looked like lace work—and while looking, you 
might almost fancy them—some more decorations 
for the bride—some fairy scarfs, or veils. 

Every face w T as bright—no clouds—no long 
faces—no tears—she was not going away—she 
w r as only going to church—to come back to them 
the wife of Michael Thorn, and the same little 
Eily at home—the sunshine of the house. There 
was a hushed brightness and happiness about Eily 
—she walked quietly, and spoke more softly—she 
smiled gently—instead of laughing merrily, as 
she was wont to do—a sort of subdued gladness 
buno; over her—she seemed to feel the dignity of 
the proud title she was about to assume of wife— 
and the rank of matron; and the sense of the 
great duties and obligations belonging to them 
no doubt filled her mind, and engrossed her 
thoughts; but she only grew softer and sweeter— 
more gentle and loving. 

Soon arrayed by Kathleen’s hands in the pure 



THE FAIR MAID OF CONNAUGHT. 


55 


robe of simple white muslin—the tulle veil caunlit 
in the golden waves of her hair by a spray of 
orange blossoms—she made a sweet picture of 
perfect innocence and beauty, and descending she 
presented herself for inspection before departure 
for the chureli. 

Winny declared she was her blessed wean, 
and showered every blessing on her head. Pat 
declared she w~as the “sweetest young lady, and 
the very beautifullest to be seen in the whole 
County Galway; ” while Eily smiling gently as 
she passed from one to the other—crossed over to 
where her father stood in proud and stern ad¬ 
miration. 

“Am I all right dear father ? ” 

“Yes, dear child,” exclaimed John Daly with 
fervor, as he clasped the little one in his arms. 
“You are, indeed, all that a fond parent could 
desire. May every blessing fall on your young 
head this day” Then taking her over to Michael 
Thorn, he added—“ Here she is Michael— take 
good care of her—and may you see bright days.” 
Eily placed her little hand confidingly on Michael's 
strong arm—one of Michael Thorn’s brothers 
acted as best man. Kathleen and a young lady 
from Ballinasloe were the brides-maids. They all 
passed out in quiet happiness, and set out for the 
parish church. Father Blake was there to offici- 






56 


THE FAIR MAID OF CONNAUGHT. 


ate, and the Nuptial Mass was said and the bene¬ 
diction given in a most impressive manner by the 
good old father. Eily with downcast eyes, and a 
soft blush mantling her cheek—walked slowly 
down the aisle, leaning on Michael’s arm, and fol¬ 
lowed by the rest of the family—Winny and Pat 
bringing up the rear. The little Sunday-school 
children met her at the door with the sweetest 
flowers to scatter in her path. She stopped to 
greet many of them, for they wrnre her scholars. 
The church was filled with old and young, and all 
gave their lieart-felt blessing to the young and in¬ 
nocent one who had just received the sacrament 
of marriage. The last one who passed through 
the door of the little old-fashioned church was 
Father Blake—his white hair flowing down over 
his shoulders, and supporting himself with his 
strong oaken-stick. “ I'll be with you, “said he to 
the wedding party, and he jumped into the car to 
accompany them home. Having arrived there 
the neighbors gathered in, and they passed a 
pleasant evening—some merry music—a dance, 
and refreshments dispensed by Winny and Pat, 
wound up the day. 



THE FAIR MAID OF CONNAUGHT. 


57 


CHAPTER IX. 

u Art is long , and time is fleeting: 

And our hearts tho ’ strong and brave, 

Still like muffled dreams are beating 
Funeral marches to the graveA 

Years have passed quietly by. Eily is the 
gentle, pretty matron, surrounded by a troop of 
healthy, happy children. Michael has managed 
the farm, entirely to the satisfaction of John Daly, 
who has quietly settled down into Grandpa— 
whose special chair—seat at the table, and every 
wise, or pretty speech is duly venerated by the 
growing household. Winny is in her element 
among the young brood over whom she rules as 
a sort of household divinity—she dispenses her 
favors with great equity and justice—but does not 
allow that her childher ever do anything wrong, 
or commit any misdemeanor whatever, but that 
they are the most blessed weans that God ever 
bestowed on any parents. 




58 


THE FAIR MAID OF CONNAUGHT. 


Soon after Eily’s marriage, Kathleen entered 
the convent at Ballinasloe, of the Sisters of Mercy 
—there she too was arrayed in her bridal dress— 
her beautiful hair was cut off, and the black 
habit, cap and veil robed her queenly form, and 
only seemed to make her look more beautiful 
still. She took the name of Sister Adele, and 
was known far and wide for her numerous acts of 
simple charity and mercy. She never wearied in 
doing good. The aged and infirm—little children 
—mothers—sons—fathers—all went to her for 
comfort of some kind—none appealed in vain, 
and all went away carrying with them, each their 
own particular consolation, and showering bles- 
ings on the sweet patient sister, who never turned 
a deaf ear to their many wants and miseries—and 
who worked with untiring zeal in her mission— 
with a true heart in her vocation. But Kathleen 
had inherited her mothers delicacy of constitution 
—seen perhaps in that unearthly purity of com¬ 
plexion. She gradually declined, and soon she 
appeared a ghost of her former self, and as she 
flitted about on her heavenly missions of love and 
charity—her slight form grew thinner and thin¬ 
ner until she looked in her spiritual beauty and 
brightness, as though she were truly a spirit from 
that land whose peopling is of angels. As she 
passed her people with her shadowy form, little 



THE FAIR MAID OF CONNAUGHT. 


59 


children would clasp their hands—mothers would 
sigh—and the old would stop and say: “ Soon she 
will vanish from our midst—there’s a look of 
Heaven about her—something not of earth—she 
don’t belong here, anyhow.” Too soon, too true 
were these prophetic warnings. One day she was 
unable to go on the rounds of ministering grace 
and mercy. The cuckoo had scarcely sung his 
first spring note, when it was announced that 
Sister Adele would never visit them again. Great 
was the gloom among the neighboring poor. 
Mothers spoke in whispered accents long, with 
hands pressed upon their hearts. Little children 
stood in groups, with tears in their eyes, to talk 
of the dear Sister who had taught them all they 
knew, and shared every little sorrow and joy. 
Eily and her father had paid many visits to Bal- 
linasloe lately, to see the sweet Sister who was 
pluming her wings for the last flight. Her 
lessons and advice to Eily were full of the beauty 
of holiness—and the sorrow of the father and 
daughter, though deep, was chastened and sub¬ 
dued. One morning they were sent for in haste 
—she had just breathed her last. They reached 
there only in time to see that lovely face calm in 
the repose of the last sleep of death. There she 
lay in all her heavenly beauty, which the dark 
habit only enhanced; the slender white fingers 




GO 


THE FAIR MAID OF CONNAUGHT. 


folded on lier breast. It was not death, but the 
sweet sleep of an angel. You felt with all its 
force that line—“ Tell me my soul, can this be 
death ? ”—USTo— it was the sleep of the angels. The 
Mother Superior stood at the foot of the bed. 
Eily worn out with weeping knelt at the side. 
The stern old father stood erect with arms folded. 
On his face you read-“My God! I gave her to 
Thee long ago.” Two or three curly-headed 
children opened the door and peeped in-—then 
crept away in childish fear aud dread of the 
solemn presence of Death. “ Come in children,” 
said the mother-“fear not! the room, I think, is 
filled with Angels.” The children approached 
holding by one another, they drew nearer and 
kissed her robe, while tears flowed down their 
cheeks, and sobs broke forth. There she lay in 
calm majestic beauty—a sweet smile played about 
her mouth. Farewell! Kathleen. She had 
entered the “ Life Everlasting P 



^he ||ame ||oot. 


Adrienne Durozel, as well as several of her 
little friends, attended the school of Miss Menais; 
but, although she w T as very intelligent, it was 
very rarely that she obtained a high place in class, 
because study fatigued her. She learned her 
lessons very poorly, and executed her tasks with 
negligence; and when she was not watched, she 
passed her time in reading fairy tales or plays 
instead of studying. 

The evening before the day for the lesson in 
geography, Madame Durozel said to her daughter: 
“ My child, you are going to draw to-day the 
map of Europe. I am obliged to go out, which 
annoys me extremely; you must, my dear one, 
give much application to this work, in order to 
have, to-morrow, the eye and hand sufficiently 
well practised, so that you will be able to draw 
this map well when you are in class: for you 




62 


THE LAME FOOT. 


know tliat Miss Menais does not permit you to 
have any model. Promise me to work as if I 
were near you; for, if I believed tliat you would 
lose time in my absence, I would sooner neglect 
my business than leave you. I should be so 
happy to see you hold a high place in your class.” 

“ Attend to your business, and be happy, dear 
Mamma: I will not leave my map until it is 
finished, and I will even correct it with the 
Atlas.” 

So Adrienne traced her degrees, and drew the 
outlines of some of the northern countries. Hav¬ 
ing need of a pair of compasses, she went to look 
for one in her father’s study. There she saw up¬ 
on the table four little volumes, entirely new. 
She took the first and opened it, to look at the 
title and the engravings: it was the “ Swiss Fam¬ 
ily Bobinson.” 

The child wished to read only the first chapter, 
but, allowing herself to be carried away by the 
interest of the story, she continued to read, not¬ 
withstanding the voice of her conscience, which 
reproached her for deceiving her Mother and 
breaking her word that she had given her. 
But the temptation was great, and she had not 
strength to resist it. 

Adrienne must have read for an hour, more or 
less, when she heard her Mother enter,- she quick- 



THE LAME FOOT. 63 

ly put back the hook in the place from which 
she had taken it, and ran through the parlor, to 
return and place herself again at her work. 

In passing before the clock, she glanced up, 
and saw with confusion that nearly three hours 
had passed since Madame Durozel had gone out. 

Overwhelmed by the fault that she had not the 
courage to confess, on hearing her Mother ap¬ 
proach, Adrienne threw herself full length upon 
the sofa. When Madame Durozel entered, she 
was frightened on seeing the distorted face of 
her little girl. 

. “ Oh! Mercy ! my child, what has happened to 
you ? ” cried the poor Mother: “ are you ill ? ” 
u 01i! yes, Mamma,” stammered Adrienne 
with confusion; “I am suffering horribly with 
pain in my right foot and leg.” 

Madame Durozel, much alarmed, rang for 
Briggitta, the nurse, who took care of the child, 
and sent her for a physician. 

When he arrived, they took off her shoes and 
stockings, whilst she uttered cries of anguish 
The Doctor examined the foot and leg, but could 
discover no trace of any injury. lie seemed 
much astonished at such excessive pain without 
intermission. ITe ordered an application of bella¬ 
donna leaves, dipped in laudanum, to be admin- 
istired morning and evening. 



THE LAME FOOT. 


f>4 


They put the invalid to bed, and Briggitta es¬ 
tablished herself near her. Her father came to 
see her; and, to enable her to endure the illness 
with patience, he brought the four volumes of 
the “Swiss Family Robinson,” that he had bought 
the evening before, to give her if she had attained 
a high place in composition. lie little imagined 
that the little girl had already seen them. 

This comedy lasted for live days, during which 
time Madame Durozel did all in her power to en¬ 
tertain her child, and gratify all her fancies; but 
weariness took possession of Adrienne. The 
weather was magnificent; she would have liked 
very much to have gone to the Tuileries, which 
is a number of large and beautiful gardens attach¬ 
ed to the Palace of the Tuileries in Paris, and 
which is beautifully laid out in parterres of the 
richest flowers, and where children enjoy them¬ 
selves very much on bright days; and Adrienne 
in spite of the terrible accident, was pining to 
be with her young companions in these lovelv 
gardens where rich and poor, young and old en¬ 
joy themselves to their hearts content, and for¬ 
getting the part she was acting, she became very 
uneasy in her bed. 

Briggitta, who observed her, and who was be¬ 
ginning to doubt the reality of the lameness of 
the foot, resolved to assure herself of the truth. 



THE LAME FOOT. 


65 

In the evening, at the regular hour, she prepared 
the dressing;—Adrienne was so much absorbed 
in reading the “Fairy of the Clouds,” and the 
nurse dressed her foot so tenderly, that the inva¬ 
lid forgot to utter the accustomed groans. 

Briggitta most adroitly placed the bella-donna 
poultice on the well foot. 

The Doctor, who came every morning to see 
how this singular case was progressing, was stu¬ 
pefied with amazement when he saw the dressing 
placed on the other foot. He was going to ex¬ 
claim, when he raised his eyes, and met Briggitta’s 
glance. lie arranged the flannel and bandages 

ZD ZD O 

as usual, and touched the foot, which caused 
Adrienne to jump, and drew from her slight ex¬ 
clamations of pain. 

“You sulfer, then, all the time, my child?” 
said he. 

“A little less than yesterday Doctor,” replied 
the little one, with a perfectly composed air. 

“And the other foot, how is that? ” 

“ Oh ! perfectly well: see ! ” and she performed 
various evolutions with her right foot. 

“ Come here quickly, Madame,” cried the 
Doctor to Madame Durozel, who entered,— 
“come and see this wonder! Behold! for six days 
I have endeavored to cure your daughter’s right 
foot, without succeeding, whilst Briggitta, by 




6G 


THE LAME FOOT. 


applying the dressing to the left-foot, has per¬ 
formed this miracle! But I very much fear that 
an evil still more grave will be the result of all 
this, and which will demand all your care.” 

And taking his hat, he went out, casting a cold 
glance on Adrienne, who perceived then, for the 
first time, the trick that her nurse had played. 

She Avas so OA r ercome Avitli shame, when she 
saw that her deception Avas discovered, that she 
burst into tears. 

“ Oh ! my child!” said Madame Durozel, more 
afflicted than her daughter, perhaps, “ Iioav could 
you descend to such a falsehood, and Iioav could 
you persevere in it so long? ” Has your conscience 
remained mute during the six days that you 
have passed in your bed? ” 

“ No, in truth, dear Mamma,” replied Adrienne, 
sobbing, “ truly I was ashamed; but I did not 
know how to extricate myself from the position 
into Avhicli I had so stupidly placed myself.” 

And she related to her Mother how it had 
come to pass. 

“My daughter, shall I then no longer be able 
to lxrpose my trust in your integrity, nor belief 
in your Avord ? Ah ! you have caused me in this 
moment the keenest grief that I have ever felt; 
for lying is a thing so base and so degrading, that 
it always leaves upon the soul a stain most diffi- 



THE LAME FOOT. 


6T 


cult to efface; and the idea alone that you know 
how to lie , tills me with grief.” 

“ Dear, good Mother, punish me, for I have 
well merited it; but do not take away from me 
your confidence! nothing shall cost me too much' 
to regain it, I assure you; put me to the proof, k 
and you will see. Oh! above all, above all, do 
not grieve any more, my Mother, I beg and en¬ 
treat.” 

From this day Adrienne studies with great dil- 
gence, and the peace and happiness of the family, 
troubled for a time by this incident, are now 
entirely reestablished. But the poor child can 
never look in the face of the Doctor who attend¬ 
ed her, and whose presence revives all her 
remorse. 





Eulalie possessed much intelligence and sensibil¬ 
ity; but tliese bright qualities were tarnished by 
one great defect: she was a little miser. “ A 
miser at ten years old? “I hear you say gentle 
readers, this is impossible ”! This odious vice 
(one for which there is no excuse) did not render 
her happy. First she deprived herself of the 
matchless happiness of giving; then she gave her¬ 
self up to a continual contest between her good 
heart, which led her to help the poor, and her 
love of money, which, alas! presented her always. 

The nurse who had taken tender care of 
Eulalie when she was little, and from the time 
of her infancy, had married a carpenter in the 
neighborhood, and was dying of a decline: the 
little girl went to see her every day. The doc¬ 
tors, not being able to save her, permitted them 
to gratify all her whims and fancies: and the sick 
woman had many. 




EULALIE. 


69 


When Eulalie found at Home that which 
would please her nurse, she carried it to her ea¬ 
gerly; but when she wished for something that 
she was compelled to buy, the child never had 
the generosity to procure it for this woman, who 
had so tenderly nursed her, and whom she loved, 
nevertheless, so much. 

One day,—it was toward the end of June,— 
Eulalie found the sick woman more disturbed 
than usual. 

“ What is the matter with you to-day, my dear 
nurse, “said she to her, “that you seem so un¬ 
easy? 

“My darling, I dare not tell you; it is too 
silly.” “Yes; tell me—do!” 

“ Ah! well, I have a foolish desire to taste a 
melon, and I cannot help crying because I cannot 
gratify this wish.” 

Has the Doctor forbidden it ? ” 

“ Oh ! no, truly he has not.” 

“Why, then, can you not have some?” 

“ It is this: you know, my dear little one, mel¬ 
ons are very rare at this season; it would cost too 
much for poor working people to buy them. 
Nevertheless, in vain have I told myself that; I 
cannot console myself for being deprived of tast¬ 
ing melons this year.” 

“ Console yourself—they will not always be so 
dear.” 



70 


EULALIE. 


“Yes; but tlien—where will I be?” and the 
poor woman wept in speaking thus. Her tears 
moved Eulalie: on returning Home she asked 
her mother if there w*ere any melons in the house; 
and as the reply was in the negative, she went 
up-stairs to her room, and took from the bureau- 
drawer a very little box, of which she carried the 
key. She opened it, and regarded complacently 
the little treasure that it contained. Her heart 
beat quickly on touching all these small pieces of 
silver, she arranged them on the bureau, counted 
them, and was so completely absorbed and de¬ 
lighted with this work, that she forgot entirely 
for what purpose she had taken them from the 
box. 

She finished at last by replacing them, and only 
then did she think of her nurse. Sighing, she 
took three beautiful pieces of one franc each; 
but at the moment, when about closing the box, 
she thought she would not take them, and the 
three pieces w T ere sent back to join the others. 
The next day, she took from the table a plate of 
very highly flavored strawberries; she sugared 
them well, and then carried them to the sick 
woman. 

“They are very beautiful, “said she, thanking 
the child; but as for me, poor darling, I wish for 
notliing but melon; I have dreamt of it all night 



EULALIE. 


71 


in my fever. Must I die, then, without having- 
had one taste ? ” 

Struck with these words, Eulalie looked at her 
nurse more attentively, and was singularly struck 
with her changed appearance. 

She wept. 

u Do not grieve, my child, “said the poor 
woman: “it is much better to die than to be a 
burden npon your family If I had only one 
mouthfull of melon, to restore my appetite! “and 
she cast upon Eulalie a beseeching look which 
seemed to say much. 

The little girl understood it, and returned 
Home, perfectly resolved, this time, to give a last 
satisfaction to the faithfull nurse who had taken 
such good care of her in her infancy. She open- 
again the little box, took out the three pieces of 
silver, put them in her pocket, and went down 
to attend to her daily duties. From time to> 
time she put her hand in her pocket, to have the 
pleasure of feeling the three pieces; later still, 
she said to herself that she could very well post¬ 
pone the purchase of the melon until the next 
day, and that then perhaps, the fancy of her nurse 
would have passed away. 

The poor woman expired in the night ! Eulalie 
was inconsolable for not having given her this 
last pleasure : for evidently she expected it from 




EULALIE. 


7.2 


the child of whom she had taken so much care. 
The beseeching look of the sick woman followed 
her every where, and awakened salutary remorse 
in her conscience, which, I.beleive, has corrected 
her of the most shameful avarice. 




One beautiful spring morning the carriage of 
Madame Lemaire stopped before the steps of a 
little country house of the Bourbonnais, which 
rested in the midst of a lovely garden, like a nest 
of nightingales in a rose bush. 

Little Sarah, a child of eight years of age, de¬ 
scends first; and they had not finished unloading 
the carriage, when she had already plundered the 
groves to gather a large bouquet for her mother; 
then escaping again, she ran to the Priest’s house, 
to see the good old priest who had baptized her, 
and who was going to prepare her for her first 
communion. In short, she did not return until 
dinner time. 

“Well, my child,” said Madame Lemaire,, 
“ how is our good pastor % ” 

“ Oh ! mamma, he is very thin, and very pale.” 






n 


THE GOOD OLD PRIEST. 


“He is not at all well, tlie dear gentleman,” 
said tlie gardener’s wife, wlio was assisting 
Madame Lemaire, in arranging some flowers. 
“During the severe winter that has just passed, 
lie has not been kept warm enough for a man of 
his age, and for more than six months he has only 
drank water.” 

“ Oh ! dear, dear! why is that ? ” 

“It is this, you see, madame, the snow remained 
a long time on the ground this year; work was 
scarce in the cottages, and food also, for the 
potatoes were frozen. The heart of the good 
priest hied on seeing all of this misery; then he 
went to sleep in the little room, and sent away 
the bed from his large chamber, in which he 
placed a stove that was lit in the evening; every 
one came to warm themselves at their ease. As 
he knew very well that no one had enough to eat 
in the town, he contrived to have some good soup 
made, and everyone had their porringer full, 
morning and evening. Mow all his wood is gone, 
and he has finished by selling his wine stand. 
Although he had made such a collection to give 
away, he was still filled with anxious fears that it 
was not enough to relieve the wants of the poor 
people. Then he has denied himself food, to give 
to others.” 

“Mamma” cried Sarah,” I know now why I 



THE GOOD OLD PRIEST. 


75 


have not seen his beautiful ivory crucifix in its 
usual place; and why he, who thought so much of 
his large silver snuff box, should now use one of 
hircli bark instead.” 

lie has sold everything, the good man, even 
his three spoons, and his large silver goblet; and 
he eats now with a wooden spoon, like all the 
poor people of his parish.” 

The good priest came in the evening, to pay a 
visit to Madame Lemaire. 

She invited him to dine with her the next day, 
and placed her purse in his hands, begging him 
to distribute the contents as alms, because he knew 
so well how to dispense them—so much better 
than she did. 

In the evening, when Sarah kissed her mother 
good night, she said, gazing at her with a most 
beseeching look: 

“Ah! Mamma, if you would permit me—” 

“ Permit you to do what, my child ? ” 

“Permit me to buy back the snuff box of my 
pastor! You know that papa gave me a little 
money, when he bade me good-bye.” 

“ Yes, certainly, my child; I will permit you 
to buy back the snuff box of our good pastor! 
We will go to-morrow, without delay, to the city; 
I wish to recover the crucifix upon which he has 
been accustomed to cast his first glance when he 



76 


TIIE GOOD OLD PRIEST. 


awakened, and before wliicli be said liis first 
morning prayer. Embrace me, my dear one; I 
am most bappy tliat we liave bad tbe same idea. 
We must set out very early to-morrow morning, 
-in order to return in time for dinner, and you 
know tliat tbe route is long and tedious, so, do 
not sleep to long ! ” 

Useless advice!—tbe child was awake before 
day; tbe hop6 of giving pleasure to tbe venerable 
priest, and tbe fear of not being able to find again 
tbe snuff box, agitated ber so much. 

Arriving in tbe city, Madame Lemaire easily 
found tbe silversmith who bad bought tbe silver¬ 
ware from tbe charitable priest; tbe old snuff box 
was still at tbe shop, to Sarah’s great joy; but be 
bad sold tbe goblet and tbe spoons. 

Tbe person who bad purchased tbe crucifix was 
induced to give it up to Madame Lemaire, only 
upon tbe condition that be should return for it 
some day, for it was a true masterpiece of art. 

On returning borne, Sarah and ber mother 
found tbe good priest reading his breviary, and 
waiting for them. They told tbe maid to replace 
tbe crucifix in tbe alcove in tbe parsonage. 

Tbe old man who took snuff very frequently, 
had bis snuff box almost always near him. At 
dinner, whilst very busy telling of a family who 
bad just been ruined by fire, Sarah substituted, 



TIIE GOOD OLD TRIEST. 


77 


without Iris perceiving it, the silver box for that 
of the bark. The priest took it mechanically, 
whilst continuing to speak; but feeling the cold¬ 
ness of the metal, he stopped and looked at it; 
then he lifted it to his lips, while large tears 
flowed slowly down his cheeks. 

“ Will you,” said he, “ excuse the weakness of 
an old man ? ” My mother always used this box 
as long as she lived.” 

Then seeing the radiant face of the little girl, 
who had fixed her tearful eyes upon him. 

“ My daughter,” said he to her, “ God will bless 
thee; for the purest incense that one can offer 
Himj is the happiness that we give to our neighbor . 




Sister Anne Joseph was a holy woman, who 
kept a charity school in her small town. She 
loved the children who came to her class, as if she 
had been their own mother; she also desired to 
correct their faults, and that she often found very 
difficult. The poor sister, had above all, much 
trouble in making them understand how displeas¬ 
ing lying was to Almighty God, and how much 
evil it produced in the world. 

u Sister,” one of the best scholars said to her 
one day, “ I assure you that we never tell a false¬ 
hood.” 

1 on believe so, my child, because you say 
nothing that is not true; but it is not alone by 
speech that we may deceive. You may act a lie\ 
and, by omitting to speak the truth when it might 
benefit your neighbor, you may lie by omission. 

The children did not understand her. 





LIES IN ACTION AND BY OMISSION. 


79 


Some days after, Sister Anne Joseph observed 
a little girl, the very one who had said that she 
never told a lie, wiping her mouth very frequent¬ 
ly. On observing her very closely, the sister 
perceived that, every time that she pretended to 
wipe her mouth, she slyly slipped in a cherry, 
notwithstanding that it was forbidden to eat in 
class. 

She called to her from her desk. “Marinette, you 
are lying at this moment! ” “ I, Sister! ” replied 
the child, wdiose speech was slightly affected by 
the cherry that she had in her mouth—“ But I 
said nothing! ” “That is very true, you have not 
spoken; but you have been eating cherries by 
stealth, all the while pretending to wipe your 
mouth. Ah! well, my daughter, this is a lie in 
action .” 

Marinette blushed, and a smothered laugh 
passed through the benches. 

A little later, in unfolding her work, little 
Sophie lost her needle. The Sister had seen it. 
However, the child continued to move her arm, 
and one would think that she was sewing with 
zeal. 

“ Sophie,” said the Sister, “ bring me your 
work.” 

The little girl obeyed with a marked dislike. 

But what have you done to-day, my child? 
“ Your work is just as it was yesterday.” 




80 


LIES IN ACTION AND BY OMISSION. 


It was necessary to confess that she had lost her 
needle. 

“ Ah! well, Sophie, when you have the appear¬ 
ance of working with so much zeal, and, never¬ 
theless, do nothing, is not that a lie, although you 
do not say a word ? ” 

Sophie returned, much confused, to her place, 
with a new needle, and the smothered laugh com¬ 
menced again. 

Among those who smiled was a large, fair com¬ 
plexion girl, who seemed to study her lessons 
with great attention; but, as her neighbors were 
making great efforts to keep from laughing, 
Sister Anne Josepli, whom they could not deceive 
very easily, suspected the studiousness of the 
blonde, and, passing softly behind her, took her 
book, and saw that she held it upside down. 
Again one more who lied in action ! 

“ My dear little ones,” said she, “ you laugh at 
the faults of your companions, and you forget too 
easily that you, too, commit faults. Such con¬ 
duct is wrong. Do you not know, my children, 
that you must be good, above all? Without 
goodness all the rest is nothing.” 

The Sister had remarked that, for some time, 
one of her scholars, who was very mild, and very 
industrious, never arrived in time for the opening 
of the morning class. She reproached her; and 



LIES IN ACTION AND BY OMISSION. 


81 


the child, who was very timid, wept, without 
giving the least excuse. Sister Anne Joseph, 
vdry much astonished to find that all her remon¬ 
strances were perfectly useless, made some inquiry 
in the part of the town where the little Marie 
Louis lived. She learned that this child, who 
had no mother, and who kept house for her 
father as well as she could, did still more. She 
went every morning to wash the linen for a sick 
neighbor, and all this, poor as she was herself. 
Iler companions knew this well! 

After class, in the evening, the Sister said to 
them: 

“ You heard me every day reproaching Marie 
Louise for her want of punctuality. The poor 
child never excused herself, and I continued to 
blame her negligence. I hear that this good little 
one renders a service every day to a sick neigh¬ 
bor. You all knew it, and not one came to tell 
me; and you have let me scold your companion, 
when you knew well that she did not merit it. 
See, my little friends, that is what I call a lie by 
, omission ; because you have omitted to speak the 
truth when you would have done much good by 
making it known. Recollect well, my children, 
that you never must be silent when, by speaking, 
you may be useful or agreeable to your neigh¬ 
bor; for God has said: “ Thou shall love thy 
neighbor as thyself P 





There lived in Paris a young married lady, by 
the name of Madame Julia Bercy. This lady was 
very beautiful and very intelligent, but extremely 
frivolous, and was entirely occupied with the 
follies of the world. She was what they call in 
France une mondaine , which means a very worldly 
person. She passed her time in making visits, 
and in entertainments of all kinds, completely 
occupied with displaying her elegant dresses and 
beautiful jewels. Every morning she passed an 
endles time in arranging her hair, polishing her 
nails, and perfuming her whole person. She took 
particular care of her hands, which were very 
beautiful; and in order to preserve their whiteness 
better, she wore gloves even at night, while 
sleeping. 

She did not pass any time even with her child¬ 
ren, but gave them up entirely to the care of 


VANITY. 


83 


their nurse; scarcely did tlieir mother kiss them, 
even once a day. 

Although Madame Bercy was very rich, she 
never had any money to give as alms, nor time to 
think of the poor; for she spent every thing to 
satisfy her vanity; she did not even find time to 
render a service to any one. 

She had an uncle, who w r as an excellent clergy¬ 
man; he frequently spoke to her on this subject, 
using the most forcible and eloquent language, 
in order to touch her heart which, alas! vanity 
had so hardened. 

But, although she always listened to him with 
great deference, she never became any more rea¬ 
sonable or sensible, because her vanity w T as still a 
great deal stronger than the affection that she felt 
for her uncle. 

One morning he called on her to make a new 
attack. He found her seated before a large mir¬ 
ror; she was arranging her hair in different styles, 
trying on head-dresses, and regarding herself in 
the most smiling and admiring maimer. 

The worthy priest was struck, for the first time, 
with the beauty and extreme whiteness of the 
hands of his niece; and inspired with a thought 
from heaven, he said to her: 

“ Julia, I have decided to fatigue you no long¬ 
er with my useless sermons; I will be silent then, 



84 


VANITY. 


henceforth. However, I keep silence upon one 
condition, which will he very easy for yon to ful¬ 
fil: it is, that every morning you say three words 
only.” 

“ My dear nncle, I am entirely disposed to sat¬ 
isfy you.” 

“ But Julia, yon must promise me solemnly not 
to fail to do so.” 

“I promise yon solemnly, my dear Uncle.” 

“It is only necessary to see your hands, to 
understand that you have taken great care of 
them.” 

“ I do take great care of them, indeed,” replied 
Julia, looking at her hands with complacency; 
every morning I rub them with almond paste, 
and then I perfume them with myrtle water or 
vervain.” 

“ Ah! well, every morning, after having rubbed 
and perfumed your hands, you must say, on look¬ 
ing at them and turning them three times: 
“ Hands, you will decay! Hands, you will decay! 
Hands, you will decay! 

“Be assured I will not fail to do so ; hut let me) 
tell you that I think it is a very singular idea!” 

“As you wish, my dear niece; old men often¬ 
times have their eccentricities, which you must 
regard with compassionate charity. Adieu! I 
shall rest easy since you have given your word.” 



VANITY. 


85 


The next day, in the morning Madame Bercy, 
on making her toilet, did not fail to turn her 
beautiful hands three times, after having carefully 
washed and perfumed them, and repeated the 
words that her uncle had dictated. She did it for 
several days in succession, without attaching much 
importance to it. 

One morning, however, she listened while 
pronouncing three times, “ Hands, you will de¬ 
cay ! ” 

“ My uncle was right,” thought she, “in saying 
that old men often have strange ideas! ” 

The following day, after having said the three 
words, she looked at her hands with a kind of 
compassion, saying: “ It would be a great pity, 
truly, that they should decay, they are so beauti¬ 
ful ! ” 

Each day led to some new reflection. “ Indeed 
they will decay, nevertheless,” cried she in a loud 
voice. “Those who praise them to-day would 
look on them with horror if they should see them 
then.” 

Another time she reflected: “ But, if my hands 
decay, my body also will decay! Of what use will 
my beautiful ornaments be then, which now are 
my glory and my happiness ? 

On this day she closed her doors to visitors, so 
that her meditations might not be disturbed. The 



86 


VANITY. 


next day she asked herself: “When the moment 
arrives for me to leave this world, what shall I be 
able to say I have done ? And passing over her 
entire life in her memory, she could not recollect 
a single good action, not the slightest duty ful¬ 
filled: nothing, in short, that she could lay at the 
feet of our Lord, in order to disarm His just 
severity, and this thought frightened her. 

In order to escape from the sadness that over¬ 
whelmed her in spite of herself, she made the 
most beautiful toilet, to go to a brilliant enter¬ 
tainment that was given the same evening. On 
casting a last glance at her mirror, she found her¬ 
self less beautiful than usual: looking down upon 
her arms adorned with bracelets, and upon her 
hands loaded with rings, she experienced an in¬ 
definable uneasiness, and she hastened to put on 
her gloves. 

When Madame Bercy entered the ball-room a 
murmur of admiration arose from every corner 
of the drawing-room, and she experienced one 
moment of lively pleasure, in observing that, in 
the midst of these new and elegant toilets, her 
own was the freshest and the most brilliant. 

But after having looked around, and examined 
every one, she commenced thinking that these 
gay men and these silly women, devoted to pleas¬ 
ure, would soon become nothing more than dust, 



VANITY. 


87 


and tliat all of them, like her hands, would one 
day decay. 

“ What reply will they make to our Lord,” 
said she to herself, “when he demands of them 
an account of the soul that he gave them ? ” 

Then she thought of her mother, so pious, and 
so good to every one. Then the beauty of all 
this sparkling youth disappeared before her eyes; 
she saw herself such as she would be at the day 
of judgment, and her heart was troubled. 

Not finding any pleasure in this entertainment, 
she left it. On returning home, she went into 
the nursery, which she very rarely visited. The 
children slept sweetly and softly together, and 
they appeared to her so beautiful, that she be¬ 
lieved that she had never seen them until this 
moment. She did not know how she had been 
able to abandon these dear little ones to the care 
of strangers. 

In thinking of these two little angels, tucked 
in so warmly under their elder-down coverlet, she 
thought how many little children had no covering 
for their beds, no fire to warm them, no bread to 
satisfy their hunger—and she wept. 

The next day Madame Bercy rose much earlier 
than usual; she sought the nursery and her child¬ 
ren, for she wished to dress them herself. Her 
uncle, who had not been to see her since’ the 



ss 


VANITY. 


promise that she had made, came in this morning 
to see her, by chance. He found her combing the 
fair hair of her little girl. The good priest, going 
toward her with his heart full of holy joy, took 
her beautiful hand, which he kissed with tender¬ 
ness. 

“ Oh my Uncle ! ” cried Madame Bercy, “finish 
your work, and sustain me in my good resolutions 
by your pious counsels ! Guided by you, these 
hands, which will one day decay, shall henceforth 
sow benefits. I wish to fulfil all my duties now, 
in order that God may not reject my soul when 
it will have left this perishable body, that I have 
idolized for so long a time. 

Madame Bercy persevered, and became the 
most devoted mother of her family, whom the 
poor and unfortunate blessed every day. When 
she compared the actual and present happiness 
that she was deriving from the faithful discharge 
of all her duties, with that which she used to re¬ 
ceive from the vain ornaments and frivolous 
amusements in old times, and which she now had 
renounced, she said to the good priest, with the 
most heartfelt gratitude: “ Ah ! my dear uncle! 
what would I have become if you had not im¬ 
posed upon me the obligation of saying every 
morning: “ Hands, you shall decay! Hands, 
you shall decay! Hands, you shall decay! 




^naiitudc and Integrity, 

'l&i ‘©ale 5$foun£>e£> on $5facf. 


In the southern part of Auvergne, a short dis¬ 
tance from Clermont, lived an honest farmer 
who, by divers accidents, was entirely ruined, 
notwithstanding his great goodness. lie was a 
widower, and not having married until he was 
fifty-two years of age, he was already an old man 
when his only son had reached the age of ten 
years. 

This good peasant, named Furcy, lived in a lit¬ 
tle dilapidated cabin; he worked all day, and his 
modest salary scarcely sufficed for his subsistence 
and that of little Bourgingnon, his only child; 
however, he kept a goat, destined only for the 
nourishment of Bourgingnon. The poor father 
deprived himself of every tiling, in order to pro¬ 
vide for the wants of his son; hut at last his 
misery became such, that he was obliged to send 
him to Baris to seek his fortune: a wagoner, one 



90 


GRATITUDE AND INTEGRITY. 


of liis friends, agreed to take him there gratis. 
This wagoner did his Lest to console the unfortu¬ 
nate Furcy. 

“Your little Bourgingnon,” said he to him, is 
prudent and intelligent; besides, he is robust; ac¬ 
customed to climb our mountains, he will be able to 
do the errands better than another; and then I 
will establish him i:i the street St. Honore, next 
to the new house of the Bernardines. I have 
there some acquaintances, amongst them that of 
the porter Chassin, who is young, and a very good 
man: I tell you that he will make friends with 
Bourgingnon, and that he will be very useful to 
him.” 

These promises softened a little the grief of 
Furcy; he gave the most tender blessings to his 
son. Bourgingnon, in tears, promised him to re¬ 
turn at the end of six months. During the jour¬ 
ney, which was a very happy one, he often wept; 
the wagoner sang. Notwithstanding his grief, 
Bourgingnon did not lose an occasion of making 
himself useful. Perched upon the large cart, he 
hastened to get down at the least accident; he as¬ 
tonished the wagoner by his strength, his address, 
and his agility; and he finished by gaining his 
affection completely. 

At last, on arriving at Paris, Bourgingnon was 
much surprised to find that this city was much 



GRATITUDE AND INTEGRITY. 


91 


larger than Clermont. The wagoner, according 

O 0 7.0 

to promise, presented him, the same day, to the 
porter Chassin ; he received him well, and be¬ 
stowed upon him the most unequivocal marks of 
benevolence and interest. lie obtained permis¬ 
sion for him to pass his nights under a cart-slied 
which was in the court-yard; besides, he gave 
him something to eat; and after the next day, 
he spoke in his favor to some of the lodgers, and 
inspired them with the desire to see his protege. 
Every one was charmed with the sprightliness 
and the refinement of the little one from A uvergne; 
they promised to engage him as errand boy, when 
he was a little better acquainted with the streets 
of Paris. Bourgingnon acquired this knowledge 
quickly, thanks to the advice and information of 
his patron, Chassin, and then he had much 
practice. 

Notwithstanding his provincial Jargon, he 
made himself understood perfectly; he was so 
diligent, so exact, and so faithful, that they pre¬ 
ferred him to the most experienced errand porters, 
and they always paid him with an especial 
liberality. 

"Whilst Bourgingnon prospered in Paris, his 
poor father in Auvergne, endured the most pain¬ 
ful fatigues of labor, the agonies of misery, and 
the torments of paternal uneasiness. lie was 



92 


GRATITUDE AND INTEGRITY. 


not relie ued in expense by the departure of his 
child ; for not only did he not wish to profit by 
the particular efforts of Bourgingnon, but he had 
formed the project of putting aside for him some 
little savings of his own work. “ I shall have at 
least, when dying,” he said, “ the consolation of 
leaving him a good little sum for an inheritance.” 

This idea gave great courage to Furcy, notwith¬ 
standing the exhaustion of his physical strength. 
One morning, in the month of December, he was 
returning on foot slowly toward home, when, 
yielding to his lassitude, he was obliged to stop 
and seat himself on a stone. He found that he 
was at the foot of the famous mountain whose 
summit was inhabited by the respectable family 
of Pin on.* “Alas!” said Furcy raising his eyes 
toward the mountain. “ If I could reach there, 
I should find all the assistance of which I have 
need, but it will be necessary, perhaps, for me to 


* A community celebrated for rich and virtuous farmers,who 
were the possessors of the mountain and all the surrounding 
fields, forming a sort of little republic, having their own par¬ 
ticular laws, and of whom the father or the grandfather of the 
family was the chief. Their dress, their piety, their simple 
manner, seemed to reproduce and realize all the traditions of 
the Golden Age. It is not known if it were through a happy 
forgetfulness that the Revolution left them to live on the crest 
of this mountain, in order, peace, and a happy security, so 
much greater, because it was founded on religion and filial 
piety.— 





GRATITUDE AND INTEGRITY. 


93 


die here, so near the best friends of the poor 
traveller: they are there, they cannot hear me, 
and I cannot profit by their compassion and their 
charity.” 

However, the unfortunate Furcy, making an 
effort, and leaning strongly on his stick, tried to 
take some stejis upon the steep road to the 
mountain; hut he could not continue, and, with¬ 
out his stick, he would have had a dangerous fall; 
then, losing all hope, he thought of his child, and 
he could not restrain his tears; hut calling to his 
aid Him who always hears us, he invoked God, 
and asked Him to bless his son; then resigning 
himself to his fate, and trusting in Divine Provi¬ 
dence, he crossed his arms on his breast, and clos¬ 
ing his eyes, fainted! 

A few moments after, a young Pinon, return¬ 
ing to the mountain in his pleasure car, perceived 
the old man; he approached, and seeing that he 
had lost consciousness, he took him on his car, 
and continued his way. During the trip Furcy 
recovered his senses. The sight of a human face 
caused him such joy, that he was restored at once; 
and when he looked at the young man, whose mild 
physiognomy expressed so much tender compas¬ 
sion, he believed that he saw a liberating angel. 

Arrived at the dwelling of the Pinon’s, they 
made him enter the large and beautiful kitchen 




94 


GRATITUDE AND INTEGRITY. 


which served as a dining-room and parlor for all 
the family. The old man remarked, on entering, 
fifteen or sixteen young girls, clothed uniformly 
in brown stuff, and wearing on their heads long 
white veils; this modest ornament distinguishing 
them from the married women. 

Each one held in her hand a distaff and spun. 
Their mothers and grandmothers, seated opposite 
to them, spun also, bnt with the wheel. This in¬ 
teresting reunion, which offered the contrast of 
grave experience, perhaps a little severe, with such 
sweet and timid innocence, charmed the eyes of 
the old man. The young girls rose at his ap¬ 
proach, and seated him in the chimney corner, in 
the large “ arm-chair of hospitality ,” this was the 
name that they gave in this house to the easy and 
well-stuffed chair that was appropriated for the 
sick or weary traveller. When there was no 
stranger in the room, the arm-chair remained 
empty. Two young girls hastened to build up the 
fire, to warm the old man. 

There was always in this house a separate room 
for an infirm clergyman or octogenarian uncle or 
great-uncle of the masters of this immense farm; 
for from time immemorial, in each generation, 
some young member of the family entered the 
seminary, and became a priest; and, if it hap¬ 
pened that he was no longer in a condition to ex- 



GRATITUDE AND INTEGRITY. 


95 


ercise the functions of the holy ministry, he was 
received with veneration into this peaceful asylum. 
At this epoch there was one there of eiglity-six 
years of age. As Furcy found himself much 
better in the afternoon, he expressed a desire to 
receive the blessing of the pious and venerable 
clergyman. They led him to him: he was in 
his oratory. Furcy experienced a joy, mingled 
with hope, on seeing an old man who was twenty- 
four years older than himself; and his soul was 
filled with sweet consolation when he heard his 
holy exhortations, and received from his hands a 
blessed rosary. On his return to the hall, Furcy 
found there the young girls who sang hymns to¬ 
gether, for it was the eve of a great feast. These 
sweet, fresh voices, so correct and so melodious, 
caused him such delight, that the following night, 
all through a tranquil sleep, he believed that he 
heard a heavenly concert of angels. 

It was understood that Furcy should pass sev¬ 
eral days on the mountain. In the morning of 
the next day he went very early to say his 
prayers in the oratory, and after breakfast, as it 
was very fine weather, they led him into the 
orchard, where he took quite a long walk. The 
chief of the family led Furcy back to the house, 
and seated him in the “ arm-chair of hospitality .” 
At this moment they came to announce the visit 



9G 


GRATITUDE AND INTEGRITY. 


of the Marchioness of—who was travelling with 
some other persons, and who did not wish to leave 
Auvergne without having visited the celebrated 
community of the Pinon. On entering the hall, 
the marchioness approached the fire, to warm her¬ 
self, when the master of the 1 louse, turning tow T ard 
her, said, showing her Furcy: “ Madame, I can¬ 
not offer you the place of honor: you see it is oc¬ 
cupied by a sick stranger.” 

As dinner was served, they invited the march¬ 
ioness, who accepted with pleasure, as well as the 
friends whom she had brought with her. They 
placed themselves at the table with the good 
peasants: the marchioness admired their natural 
politeness. They spoke of the wonders of 
Auvergne, of those extinguished volcanoes which 
formed deep cavities or tunnels, where one could 
descend, and at the bottom of which one sometimes 
found some large chestnut trees. They boasted of 
the beauty of the grotto of Poyat, with its num¬ 
berless cascades, near Clermont, They did not 
forget to mention the fountains of pitch and those 
which had the quality of quickly petrifying the 
vegetable or animal substances that were plunged 
in it, receiving from them a sediment which ac¬ 
quired, with time, an excessive hardness. One of 
the young Pinons made a long eulogy on the ex¬ 
tensive woodland, and the beauty of the castle on 
the estate of Kandan. 



GRATITUDE AND INTEGRITY. 


97 


Immediately after dinner the marchioness left 
her hosts, taking away with her from this moun¬ 
tain and these inhabitants a remembrance that 
time could never efface; and a few days after, 
Furcy, overcome with their kindness, and well 
rested from his fatigue, took once more the road 
to his little cabin. 

While the good old man was employing all his 
failing strength to increase the sum that he in¬ 
tended for his child, the latter, on his part, was 
always thinking of his father, and working with 
an indefatigable zeal. He continued to be the 
protege" of those who lived in the new house of 
the Bernardines, and the honest porter Chassin 
felt a true friendship for him: he fed him almost 
entirely; for all the errands of the house he was 
generously paid. The proprietor, M. de Yilliers, 
gave him, besides, what clothed him, and, in the 
course of time, coats, vests, and stockings; and he 
reserved for him a little room, very warm and 
very clean, in his house, so that Bourgingnon, 
lodged, clothed and fed, could, without wanting 
anything, put aside all the money that he earned. 
At the end of seven months he found himself the 
possessor of a little more than three hundred 
francs, so he made all the little preparations for 
his journey, and set out with joy to see and en¬ 
rich his father, whom he found in pretty good 



98 


GRATITUDE AND INTEGRITY. 


health, hut as poor as ever. He gave him his 
three hundred francs, which Furcy took immedi¬ 
ately, and deposited secretly in a bag containing 
his old savings, which he had concealed in his 
straw bed. 

In the last days of Autumn, Bourgingnon set 
out a^ain to return to Paris. He found there the 
same asylum, the same patrons, and he never de¬ 
viated from his good career: his conduct was 
always as pure, his life as active, as formerly. 

Oue day, one of his patrons came to give him a 
letter to take to the Mission of Strangers, to the 
Abbe de Fenelon, the worthy clergyman who had 
established the old institution of the Savoyards, to 
which he joined the children from Auvergne and 
Limonsin. Bourgingnon gave the letter to the 
servant of the Abbe de Fenelon, and took it im¬ 
mediately to his master. At the end of a few 
minutes the servant returned to say to the little 
boy from Auvergne that the Abbe wished to 
speak to him; and he led him to the library. The 
Abbe received Bourgingnon with his natural 
kindness; he explained to him in a few words, 
the end of the association of the little Savoyards, 
and of the children of Auvergne and of Limon¬ 
sin. “ I know,” added he, “ that you are good 
and industrious; I will admit you with pleasure 
into this interesting society: this will be adopting 
you among the number of my children.” 



GRATITUDE AND INTEGRITY. 


90 


Bourgingnon, transported with joy, expressed 
his gratitude with the delicacy and ingenuousness 
of his age. lie was at the height of his joy. At 
the moment when lie was leaving, the good Abbe 
detained him, to attach to his buttonhole the hon¬ 
orable copper medal: it was understood that he 
would go every Sunday to receive Christian in¬ 
struction, which would give a firm foundation to 
his moral qualities. 

Bourgingnon returned quickly to the Hotel des 
Bernardines, to thank his protectors, who had so 
well recommended him to the Abbe de Fenelon. 
lie passed then, four or five months in Paris, at 
the end of which time, the possessor of one 
hundred crowns, he went to rejoin his father. 
But this reunion was very sad: the poor Furcy 
was in the most deplorable state of health; how¬ 
ever, he received with a satisfied air the three 
hundred francs that his son gave him. 

“ My child,” said he to him, “ you will find this 
after me, for I feel that I have but a short time 
to live.” 

“ Oh my father ! ” cried Bourgingnon, “ we 
must pay attention to your health, and employ 
all this sum to establish it: I shall earn more.” 

The old man bowed his head, and did not re ■ 
ply; but he locked and concealed the money, 
promising inwardly not to spend a cent of it. 



100 


GRATITUDE AND INTEGRITY. 


Bourgingnon wished, in vain, to call in a physic¬ 
ian; Furcy always repeated that it was useless. 
Notwithstanding all the most tender cares, the 
old man declined sensibly. Feeling it himself, 
he one morning called his son, and, drawing from 
his mattress a linen has* that he had concealed 
there: “ Take it, dear child,” said he to him, 
“here are one thousand francs that I have laid up 
for you; you have gained by your labor the great¬ 
er part of this sum, which belongs entirely to you. 
Although you are only in your thirteenth year, 
you will make, I am sure, a good use of this 
money: it may be the beginning of your fortune. 
Receive it with the most tender blessings of your 
father,” 

“Yes,” said Bourgingnon sobbing, “I will 
make a good use of it.” 

After uttering these words, he threw himself 
on his kneess; his father blessed him, implored 
for him the divine protection, and recommended 
him to lock up his money i:i an old dilapidated 
bureau, but which had a lock and key on one of 
the drawers. Then falling back on his straw bed, 
the good old man ordered his son to go immedi¬ 
ately for a priest. Bourgingnon, distracted, rail 
to the priest’s house; from there he sent a mes¬ 
senger to Clermont to bring back a physician. 
He gave his courier six francs i:i advance, cliarg- 




GRATITUDE AND INTEGRITY. 


101 


ing liim to fly. Furcy received the sacraments, 
while his son, prostrated at the foot of his bed, 
prayed with a touching fervor. After having 
fulfilled his religious duties with an edifying 
piety, the old man had still time to embrace his 
son, and to press him to his heart. A few 
minutes after, he was struck with paralysis, and 
lost, at the same time, his consciousness and 
speech. The desolation of Bourgingnon was at 
its height; however, as his father still breathed, 
he still had some hope. lie implored the priest, 
who was ready to leave the cabin, to send him the 
best nurse in the villame, showing him the thou- 

ZD J ZD 

sand francs, all his fortune, which he had decided 
to sacrifice to contribute to the recovery of his 
father. The priest touched with his filial piety, 
exhorted him to persevere, and assured him that 
God would reward it. The physician found 
Furcy in very great danger, “we may, perhaps, be 
able to relieve him,” he said; “but it will be neces¬ 
sary to prescribe a treatment which will cost a 
great deal.” 

“ Spare nothing,” said Bourgingnon to the 
doctor, “dispose of all that I possess.” 

In short, Bourgingnon rented a bathing place, 
and sent to Clermont for all the medical prescrip¬ 
tions. lie spent with liberality seven or eight 
louis, and as one nurse was not enough, he sent 
for a second. 



102 


GRATITUDE AND INTEGRITY. 


Furcy remained for three months in the same 
condition; his son spared nothing to relieve him: 
it was necessary to buy sheets, towels, shirts. 
But all was in vain; the poor invalid, at last fal¬ 
ling into the agonies of death, expired in the arms 
of his son, who spent nearly all that he had left 
to bury him. 

These duties fulfilled, and all the expenses paid, 
there were only left for Bourgingnon about one 
hundred francs; but he consoled himself, saying, 
“ at least the money has prolonged his existance 
a little.'’ 

lie decided to leave Auvergne forever, and 
without any more delay he set out for Paris. lie 
worked there at first without ambition, and with 
indolence; but the encouragement that his pro¬ 
tectors gave him, restored his energy and his 
emulation. 

The priest of his villiage had a relative in 
Paris, to whom he sometimes wrote. In one of 
his letters he related to him a part of what 
Bourgingnon had done for his father. This re¬ 
lation was acquainted with M. deVilliers, the pro¬ 
prietor of the Hotel des Bernardines. The recital 
touched M. de Yilliers still more, as Bourgingnon 
had not boasted of his conduct, and he was con¬ 
tented with saying that he had had the misfortune 
to lose his father. They wished not to reward his 



GRATITUDE AND INTEGRITY. 


103 


filial piety, but to return him a little of his money: 
they made a little collection for him in secret, 
which amounted to three hundred and sixty 
francs, which they gave him without explaining 
the true motive of their liberality, for fear of re¬ 
newing his grief. They were satisfied with ex- k 
horting him to work with activity, in order to 
show his gratitude to his patrons. 

As Bourgingnon grew older, the Porter Chas- 
sin became more and more useful to him: two or 
three very rich persons came successively to lodge 
in this hotel; Chassin recommended to them, in a 
particular manner, his young friend, for whom he 
obtained from them a particular service, which 
was worth much money to Bourgingnon. As lie 
knew how to read, and even write, very well, he 
rendered himself useful in a thousand ways; and 
at sixteen or seventeen years, having more than 
doubled his funds, he found himself the possessor 
of the sum of fifteen hundred francs. He pursued 
his career with the same success and the same good 
luck, without losing a single patron, and always en¬ 
couraged by the good Chassin with a paternal 
zeal. He succeeded thus, at the age of thirty- 
eight years, in accumulating a sum of four thou¬ 
sand francs, which would have been still more 
considerable, if Christian charity had not accus¬ 
tomed him, from his earliest youth, to distribute 



104 


GRATITUDE AND INTEGRITY. 


regular alms among the poor, and to give, from 
time to time, help to his unfortunate countrymen. 

Heaven wishing, without doubt, to reward an 
industrious life, entirely consecrated to work and 
to virtue, called him in the most unexpected 
manner. One day, in one of his rounds, he fell 
and received a violent blow on the head; he paid 
but little attention to this accident, taking no 
precautions. An abcess formed on his head; soon 
his injuries began to show themselves: at last, at 
the end of forty days, he was so ill, that they were 
obliged to take him to the charity hospital. 

There they declared that there was no hope of 
saving him; then, after having fulfilled all his re¬ 
ligious duties, he sent for a notary, and dictated 
to him a will, in which, declaring that he had 
neither brother, nor sister, nor near relation, that 
he knew of, he disposed of the sum of four thou¬ 
sand francs in the following manner; five hundred 
francs to the charity hospital; four hundred francs 
for the poor; and one thousand crowns for his 
benefactor and his friend, Cliassin, porter of the 
Hotel des Bernardines. 

A few hours after having made and signed his 
will, he received a visit from Cliassin, who had no 
suspicion of this legacy, and who, since his sick¬ 
ness, had come to see him regularly every day. 
Cliassin was frightened at seeing him so weak: 



GRATITUDE AND INTEGRITY. 


105 


judge of his grief on learning that it was a hope¬ 
less case. At last Bourgingnon, surrounded by 
all the consolations of religion and friendship, 
and strengthened by the most virtuous memories, 
expired sweetly on the evening of that day. 
Judge of the surprise of Chassin when they 
brought him the will of his friend, and the thou¬ 
sand crowns that he had bequeathed to him. 
After reflecting a short time, “ Ho,” said he, “ I 
will not keep this money: my friend was only 
twelve years old when he left Auvergne; it is very 
possible that he had in that country, without know¬ 
ing it, some poor relation, and it is of that that I 
wish to inform myself.” Completely occupied 
with this idea, Chassin wrote immediately to 
Auvergne, to procure the most detailed informa¬ 
tion upon the subject. These searches were not 
unfruitful; they discovered, at the end of a few 
months, that there existed, near Thiers, a relation, 
though very far removed, of Bourgingnon, but 
who called himself Furcy, and who, the father of 
seven children, was in the most abject poverty. 
The virtuous Chassin did not hesitate, he sent 
immediately the thousand crowns to this man. 
He did not boast of this action; but, as he had 
employed many persons in the searches that he 
had made in Auvergne, this generous proceeding 
was generally known in the house. The master 



106 


GRATITUDE AND INTEGRITY. 


of Cliassin, M. de Yilliers, was deeply touched by 
it; and as lie showed his admiration to Cliassin, 
the latter replied that he should have no merit for 
what he had done; that this money would have 
tormented him; and besides, he had no need of 
such a sum, with so good a master, who would not 
let him want for anything, and who surely would 
take care of him in his old days. 

M. de Yilliers related this history to many per¬ 
sons, among others to M. Marmontel, who lodged 
in his hotel. 

They had just instituted, a short time before, at 
the French academy, a prize as a reward for the 
most virtuous deed done in the course of the year. 
This prize consisted of a gold medal, worth twelve 
hundred francs. M. Marmontel finding, with 
reason, that Cliassin was worthy of it, proposed to 
the academy to award it to him, and obtained it 
for him. 

Cliassin was very much astonished when he 
saw one morning some deputies from the French 
academy entering his lodging. Among whom 
was M. Marmontel; they announced to him that 
they had brought him, in the name of the 
academy, the gold medal, as a homage rendered 
to his virtue. Cliassin, understanding nothing of 
this homage, asked an explanation of it; then, 
more and more surprised, “Gentleman” said he, 



GRATITUDE AND INTEGRITY. 


lor 

“ I am much obliged to you, but indeed I do not 
merit such a reward, for I only acted for my own. 
repose.” 

The sublime simplicity of tliis reply fully 
proved bow mucli Cliassin was worthy of the honor 
that they awarded him. 

This adventure made a great noise; every one 
wished to see Chassin, and even great ladies from, 
the court went to pay him a visit. They took his 
portrait, which they placed in one of the halls of 
the French academy. 

Providence truly rewarded Chassin. This 
human glory did not intoxicate him: he found: 
the prize of his virtue in the affection of his ex¬ 
cellent master, M. de Yilliers. At the age of' 
more than sixty years, Chassin became blind. M.. 
de Yilliers placed him upon one of his estates,, 
and gave him a servant. There Chassin lived 
until he was eighty-four years of age—a constant 
object of the most tender care, always beloved 
and honored,—and his old age, until the end of 
his long life, was perfectly happy. 




"When James II, King of England, was com¬ 
pelled to abandon liis kingdom, lie took refuge 
in France, and Louis XIY gave liim an asylum at 
jSt. Germain, wliere some of liis faithful subjects, 
-wlio bad followed liim, established themselves. 
Madame do Yaronne, whose history I am going 
to relate to you, was of an Irish family, who had 
followed James II into Exile. "While her husband 
lived, she enjoyed competency, and lived in easy 
circumstances; but having become a widow, and 
finding herself without protection, without rela¬ 
tion, she could not obtain from court even a por¬ 
tion of the pension which was her husband’s 
income. However, she wrote to the minister, 
and she sent several petitions. They replied to 
her that they would place her demand before the 
eyes of the King. Two years passed, without the 
slightest prospect of her hopes being realized. 







THE FAITHFUL SERVANT. 


109 


At last, having renewed her solicitation, she re¬ 
ceived a formal refusal; it was no longer possible 
for her to remain blind to her fate. Her situation 
was deplorable; for two years she had been 
obliged, in order to live, to sell, successively, her 
silver and her furniture, piece by piece; there 
remained now no other resource. Iler taste for 
solitude, her solid piety, and her bad health, had 
always held her aloof from society, and particu¬ 
larly so since the death of her husband. She 
found herself, then, without protection, without 
friends, without hope, denuded of every thing, 
plunged into frightful misery, and, to crown all 
her misfortunes, she was fifty years of age, and 
her health shattered. In this extremity she had 
recourse to the true Dispenser of consolations 
and of graces, to Him who could change her fate, 
or give her fortitude to enable her to support the 
severity of it with patience. She knelt and 
prayed to God with confidence; on rising, she 
was no longer disheartened ; she felt a sweet calm 
spring up in her soul, and she looked with firm 
eyes on all that was terrible in her condition. 

“All! well,” said she, “ since we must one day 
lose this frail existence, what does it matter, 
whether we be crushed by the last condition of 
misery, or by sickness? What does it signify wheth¬ 
er we die under a canopy, or upon straw ? Will 



110 


THE FAITHFUL SERVANT. 


my death be more painful, because I have noth¬ 
ing left to regret upon earth ? No, without doubt; 
on the contrary, I shall need neither exhortation 
nor fortitude ; I shall have no sacrifice to make. 
Abandoned by every one, I shall only think of 
Him who rules the universe; I shall see Him near, 
to receive me, to reward me, and I shall wait for 
death, as the most precious of his benefits.” 

“What fortitude!” you will say, my dear chil¬ 
dren : “ Is it impossible to die without regretting 
life a little ?” But remember that Madame de 
Yaronne had no children; that she had no longer 
father or husband, and that there was no affection 
left for her in this world. Besides, religion can 
give this sublime resignation, and I have already 
told you that Madame de Yaronne had a solid 
piety. 

As she was reflecting on her sad destiny Am¬ 
brose, her servant, entered. 

I must make you acquainted with this Ambrose. 
He was a man of forty years of age, who for 
twenty years, had served Madame de Yaronne. 
Not knowing how to read or write, abrupt, silent, 
a grumbler, he had always the air of despising 
and looking down on his fellow-servants, and of 
sulking with his masters; his countenance wore 
a continual scowl, and his disagreeable temper 
rendered his services not very pleasant. How- 



THE FAITHFUL SERVANT. 


ini 


ever, liis exact punctuality iu tlie performance 
of all liis duties, and Lis good conduct generally, 
Lad always caused liim to be regarded as an excel¬ 
lent being, and a very valuable servant. Tbey 
recognized in Lim only tlie essential qualities, 
and,besides, lie possessed some sublime virtues ; 
under an exterior, almost forbidding, Le concealed 
tlie most tender and elevated soul. 

Madame de Yaronne, some time after tlie 
death of ber Lusband, Lad sent away tbe people 
attached to her service, and retained only a cook, 
a maid, and Ambrose. At last slie found herself 
compelled to discharge again these three servants. 
Ambrose, as I told you, entered. It was winter: 
he brought in a log of wood, and was going to 
put it on the lire, when Madame de Yaronne said 
to him: 

“ Ambrose, I wish to speak to you.” 

The tone of emotion with which Madame de 
Yaronne pronounced these words, struck Ambrose. 
Itestinsr his I02: of wood on the floor, and looking 
at his mistress : “ My God ! Madame,” said he, 
“what has happened?” 

“Ambrose, do you know how much I owe tlie 
Cook?” 

“You owe him nothing, Madame, nor myself, 
nor Mary; you paid us last month.” 

“Ah! so much the better: I did not remember 



112 


THE FAITHFUL SEEVANT. 


it. All! well, Ambrose, I cliarge you to tell the 
cook and Mary that I no longer have need of their 
services. And yourself, my dear Ambrose it is nec¬ 
essary that you should look for another situation.” 

“Another situation! what do you mean ? I 
wish to die in your service; I wish never to 
leave you, no matter what happens.” 

“Ambrose, you do not know my position.” 

“ Madame, you are not acquainted with Am¬ 
brose. Ah! well, if they have withdrawn your 
pension, and you have not the means of paying 
your people, send away the others immediately; 
but for myself, I have not merited to be chased 
away with them. I have not a mercenary soul, 
Madame.” 

“ But, Ambrose, I am ruined, entirely ruined; 
All that I possess I have sold, and they have tak¬ 
en away my pension.” 

“ They have taken away your pension ? That 
cannot be.” 

“ Nothing is more true,however, ah, good God! 
we must respect and adore the decrees of Provi¬ 
dence, and submit to them without murmuring, 
my good Ambrose. However, in my misfortune, 
I experience a great consolation: it is that of 
feeling perfectly resigned, while so many beings 
upon earth, so many virtuous families, find them¬ 
selves in the same situation in which I am placed. 



THE FAITHFUL SERVANT. 


113 


I, at least, have no children: I alone will suffer. 
It is little to suffer.’’ 

“ JSTo, no,” cried Ambrose, in a stifled voice, 
“no, you shall not suffer. I have hands, I know 
how to work.” 

“ My dear Ambrose,” interrupted Madame do 
Varonne, much moved, “I have never doubted 
your attachment; I will not abuse it now. This 
is all that I am waiting for: it is that you should 
go and rent for me a little room on the fifth story. 
I have still some money left; enough to suffice for 
two or three months. I will work, I will sew. 
Seek for me in St. Germain some customers. 
This is all that I ask of you, and all that you will 
be able to do for me.” 

Ambrose had remained immovable before his 
mistress, regarding her in silence; when she had 
finished speaking, he fell at her feet. 

“Ah ! my good mistress,” cried he, receive the 
vow of poor Ambrose: “I engage to serve you 
until the end of my life, and with a better heart, 
with more respect and obedience, than I have 
ever done. For twenty years I have been 
nourished, clothed, by you; you have provided for 
me, you have made my life happy. I have very 
often abused your kindness and your patience. 
Ah! madame, pardon all the faults that I have 
committed toward you with my bad disposition. 




114 


THE FAITHFUL SERVANT. 


I will repair tliem, be sure of it; I only ask 
length of days from the good God to accomplish 
it.” 

In finishing these words, Ambrose, in tears, 
rose and went out hastily, without waiting for a 

reply. 

You may judge easily with what lively and 
deep gratitude the heart of Madame de Yaronne 
was filled. At the end of a few minutes ximbrose 
returned; he held in his hand a little bag of 
skin. Laying it upon the Mantel, he said: 

“ Thanks to God, thanks to you, Madame, and 
to your good deceased husband, there are there, in 
that purse, thirty louis. This money came from 
you, and it belongs to you.” 

“Ambrose! The fruit of your savings for 
twenty years! I cannot accept it.” 

“"When you had money, you gave it to me, 
when you have it no longer, I return it to you; 
money is only good for that. I know well that 
this little sum cannot extricate Madame from her 
embarrassment; but this is what I calculate to do. 
It must be that madame remembers that I am the 
son of a coppersmith, and that I have not forgot¬ 
ten my first trade; for, in my leisure moments, 
and sometimes when madame permitted me to go 
out, I would go to the house of Yicault, one of 
my countrymen, who is a coppersmith, and I 



THE FAITHFUL SERVANT. 


115 


worked with him for a recreation. All! well, 
now I will work in earnest, and with what 
courage.” 

“ Ah ! this is too much! ” cried Madame de 
Yaronne. “ Good Ambrose, in what a sad condi¬ 
tion fate has placed you ! ” 

“ I am content with it” replied Ambrose, “if 
madame can become reconciled to her change of 
position.” 

“Your attachment, Ambrose, ought to console 
me for everything. But to see you suffer for me !” 

“Suffer when working! when you labor, you 
become useful, such sufferings will make me very 
happy. From to-morrow I commence to work. 
Nicault, who is a good man, will not let me want 
for it. He is established in St. Germain, with a 
good credit, and he is now in need of a good 
workman. I am strong, I can do well the work 
of two, and all will be for the best.” 

Madame de Yaronne, not being able to find 
words with which to testify her admiration, raised 
her eyes to heaven, and could only reply with 
tears. 

The next day the cook and the maid were dis¬ 
charged. Ambrose rented, in St. Germain, a clean 
little room, very light, and on the third floor; he 
furnished it with a few pieces of furniture, which 
belonged to his mistress, and then conducted 



11G 


THE FAITHFUL SERVANT. 


Madame de Yaronne to it. She found there a 
good bed, a large and very comfortable arm-chair, 
a little table, with a writing-desk, and some paper, 
above which her books were arranged upon live 
or six shelves; a large wardrobe, which contained 
her linen, her dresses, and a quantity of thread, 
with which to work; a silver spoon, for Ambrose 
did not wish that she should eat with pewter; 
and the little purse which contained the thirty 
lout's (Tor .—(a gold coin used in France, equal in 
value to about four dollars in American money or 
United States currency.) In a corner of the 
room, behind a curtain, was concealed the little 
earthenware, which was to serve as the kitchen 
for Madame de Varonne. 

“ There is,” said Ambrose, “ all that I have 
been able to find that is good for the price that 
niadame wished to give for her lodging. There 
is only one room; but the servant will sleep on a 
mattress, rolled under Madame’s bed.” 

“ IIow ! the servant? ” interrupted Madame de 
Yaronne. 

“ Pardon! Could madame do without a servant 
to make her soup, to attend to her errands, and 
to undress her ? ” 

“ But, my dear Ambrose—” 

“ Oh! this servant will not cost you much: she 
is only a child of thirteen years of age; you will 



THE FAITHFUL SERVANT. 


117 


not give lier any wages, and she will always stay 
with Madame. As for me, I have made arrange¬ 
ments with hucault. I told him that I was in¬ 
cluded in the retrenchment that inadame was 
obliged to make; that I was in need, and asked 
nothing better than work. Nieault, who is rich, and, 
more than that, a good man, lets me sleep in his 
house; it is only two steps from here; he will feed 
me, and give me twenty cents a day. Living is 
cheap at St. Germain; so, with twenty cents a day, 
madame will be able to live easily, as she will 
have some provisions and a little money left: I 
did not wish to say all this before the little 
Suzanna, your new servant. ]STow I am going to 
look for her.” 

Ambrose went out immediatelv, and returned 

t J y 

in a moment after, holding by the hand a pretty 
little girl, whom he presented to Madame de 
Yaronne: 

“ This is the young girl of whom I have had 
the honor to speak to madame. Her father and 
mother are poor, but industrious; they have six 
children, and madame will do a very good action 
in taking this one in her service.” 

After this preamble, Ambrose, in a severe tone, 
exhorted Suzanna to behave well; at last he bade 
good-bye to Madame de Yaronne, and went to the 
house of his friend Nicault. 



118 


THE FAITHFUL SEUVANT. 


Who could tell all that passed at the bottom of 
Madame de Yaronne’s soul 2 She was filled with 
gratitude and admiration, and could not recover 
from the surprise that she experienced from the 
sudden change in the manners and in the disposi¬ 
tion of Ambrose. 

This man, always so abrupt, so coarse, appeared 

no more the same; since he became her benefact¬ 
or, he was only more grateful; he united to the 
most considerate behavior the delicacy of hero¬ 
ism, and his heart had learned, in one moment, 
the tenderness and respect that we should always 
show to the unfortunate. You saw that he felt 
how sacred are the obligations that our own good 
deeds impose upon us, and that one is not truly 
generous if he humiliates, or even if he embar¬ 
rasses, in the least degree, the unfortunate one 
that he is assisting. 

The day after that upon which Madame de 
Yaronne had taken possession of her new home, 
she did not see Ambrose the whole day, because 
he was at work; but he came in the evening for 
one moment, and begged Madame de Yaronne to 
send little Suzanna upon some errand. When he 
found himself alone with his mistress, he drew 
from his pocket twenty cents, wrapped up in 
paper, and placing them upon the table, said, 
“ Behold the gains of the day! ” 



THE FAITHFUL SERVANT. 


110 


Then, without waiting for a reply, he called 
Suzanna, and returned to the house of Hicault. 
After making such a use of his day’s work, how 
peaceful must have been his sleep, how sweet his 
dreams! Tor this is what we experience in doing 
a good action. Let us judge, therefore, how in¬ 
expressible must have been the satisfaction which 
such an heroic action must have procured. 

Ambrose, faithful to the duties that lie had im¬ 
posed upon himself, came every day to pay a 
visit to Madame do Yaronne, and left with her 
the reward of his day’s work. He only reserved, 
at the end of each month, as much money as was 
necessary to pay for his washing; and what he 
spent on Sunday for some beer, he asked of 
Madame de Yaronne, and received it as a gift. 

In vain Madame do Yaronne afflicted with thus 
robbing the generous Ambrose, wished to per¬ 
suade him that she could live oil much less. Am¬ 
brose either would not listen to her, or appeared to 
understand with so much difficulty, that she was 
soon forced to be silent. 

In hopes of inducing Ambrose to procure for 
himself a little more comfort, Madame de Ya¬ 
ronne, on her part, devoted herself, almost with¬ 
out ceasing, to needle work, Suzanna aided her, 
and took out her work to sell; but when Madame 
de Yaronne spoke to Ambrose of the profit that 



120 


THE FAITHFUL SEKVANT. 


slie was reaping from lier work, he replied simply, 
“So much the better” and spoke of something 
else. Time produced no change in his conduct; 
during four entire years he was never seen to de¬ 
viate from it for one single instant. 

At last the moment approached when Madame 
do Taronne was to experience the most heart¬ 
rending grief. One evening, while waiting for 
Ambrose, as usual, she saw the servant of Arnault 
enter her room, who came to tell her that Am¬ 
brose was sick, and was forced to keep his bed. 
At this news Madame de Taronne begged the 
servant to lead her immediately to the house of 
Kicault, and at the same time she ordered Suzan- 
na to go for a physician. Madame de Taronne, 
on arriving at the house of Aicault, caused much 
surprise to the latter, who had never seen hei\ 
She told him that she wished to go to Ambrose’s 
room. 

“ But, Madame,” replied Aicault, “it is impos¬ 
sible.” 

“ How so ?” 

“ It is necessary to ascend a ladder to reach this 
garret.” 

“ A ladder ! Ah! poor Ambrose! I beg you to 
lead me there.” 

“ But, Madame, still again I tell you, you will 
risk breaking your neck; and then you could not 



THE FAITHFUL SERVANT. 


121 


stand up in Ambrose’s room, it is built in such an 
ugly liole.” 

At these words Madame de Yaronne could 
scarcely restrain her tears; and again begging 
Nicault to guide her, she came to the foot of a 
little ladder, which she ascended with difficulty, 
and which led her to a garret, where she found 
Ambrose lying on a straw-bed. 

“ My dear Ambrose,” cried she, on seeing him, 
“in what a condition do I find you ? And you 
said that your lodging pleased you, and that you 
were comfortable! ” 

Ambrose was not in a state to reply to Madame 
de Yaronne; for almost an hour he had been un¬ 
conscious. Madame de Yaronne, or perceiving 
this, gave herself up entirely to her grief. At 
last, Suzanna returned with a physician. The 
latter, on entering the miserable lodging of Am¬ 
brose, w^as strangely surprised to see, near the 
straw-bed of a poor tinker, a well dressed lady, 
whose distinguished air announced high birth, 
and who appeared overcome with despair. He ap¬ 
proached the sick man, examined him attentively, 
and said that they had sent for him when it was 
too late. Judge of the state of mind of Madame 
de Yaronne, when she heard this mournful de¬ 
cision pronounced. 

“ So,” said Hicault, “it is his fault, poor Am- 



122 


THE FAITHFUL SERVANT. 


brose: for more than eight days he had been sick, 
and I wished to prevent him from working; but 
he would have his own way. He has only re¬ 
mained in bed this morning, and still we had 
much trouble in persuading him to do so. To 
enter our house, he burdened himself with more 
work than he could do; he has killed himself with 
over-working.” 

Each word that Hicault uttered was a mortal 
wound for the unhappy Madame de Varonne. 
She advanced toward the physician, and, with 
clasped hands, she implored him not to leave Am¬ 
brose. The doctor had some humanity; besides 
his curiosity was excited in a most lively manner. 
He promised to pass a part of the night with 
Ambrose. Madame de Yaronne sent to her 
house for some mattresses, some bed-clothes, and 
some linen. With them she prepared a bed for 
Ambrose, the physician and Nicault placing him 
softly upon it; then Madame de Yaronne threw her¬ 
self upon a wooden stool, and gave free vent to 
lier tears. About four o’clock in the morning 
the physical! left, after having prescribed for the 
sick man, and promised to return at noon. You 
may well imagine that Madame de Yaronne did 
not leave Ambrose for one moment. She passed 
forty-eight hours at his pillow, without receiving 
from the physician the slightest hope. At last, 



THE FAITHFUL SERVANT. 


123 


on tlie tliird day, lie announced that he believed 
he found him better, and the same evening he 
declared that he thought Ambrose would live. 

I cannot picture to you the joy, the delight, of 
Madame de Yaronne on seeing Ambrose out of 
danger. She wished to watch him again the fol¬ 
lowing night, but Ambrose, who had now recov¬ 
ered his consciousness, was not willing: to consent. 

o ^ 

She returned home, worn out with fatigue. The 
physician presented himself the next day at her 
house; he showed so much interest in her, he 
appeared so touched with the care that she had 
taken of Ambrose, that Madame de Yaronne 
could not help replying to his questions. She 
satisfied his curiosity, and related to him her 

Three days after this confidential conversation, 
the doctor, who did not live in St. Germain, was 
obliged to return to Paris; he set out hastily, 
leaving Ambrose in a convalescent state. 

However, Madame de Yaronne found herself 
now in a critical situation. In eight days she had 
spent for Ambrose the little money that she pos¬ 
sessed; she had just enough to provide for her 
wants for four or five days; but then Ambrose 
would not be in a state to commence work again, 
and she shuddered to think that necessity com¬ 
pelled him to work, at the risk of falling ill again. 





124 


THE FAITHFUL SERVANT. 


She felt the horror of her situation, and re¬ 
proached herself bitterly for having accepted the 
assistance of the generous Ambrose. 

“ Without me,” said she, “he would be happy; 
his work would have procured for him an honest 
living; his attachment to me lias destroyed his 
happiness, and may cost him his life; and I,—I 
shall die without liquidating the debt. Repay it! 
And even were it possible forme to dispose events 
according to my will, would it he possible forme 
ever to liquidate it ? God alone knows how to 
pay the sacred debt. God alone can recompense 
a virtue so sublime.” 

One evening when Madame de Yaronne was 
deeply absorbed in these sorrowful reflections, 
Suzanna, all out of breath, entered her room, and 
told her that a beautiful lady asked to see her. 

“ She is mistaken, surely,” replied Madame de 
Yaronne. 

“ No, no; she said to me like that: Madame 
de Yaronne, who lives here, at the house of Mr. 
Daviet, on the third floor.” She said that from 
her carriage,—a carriage with four beautiful 
horses. I was on the door-step. “Madame,” 
said I, “it is here.” “ Will you be kind enough to 
say to Madame de Yaronne that I ask her the 
favor to grant me a moment’s conversation?’’Then 
up stairs I flew, heels over head. 



THE FAITHFUL SERVANT. 


125 


At this moment they heard some one softly 
knocking at the door. Madame de Yaronne rose 
with extreme emotion, to go and open it. A 
perfectly beautiful lady presented herself, with a 
timid and soft manner. Madame de Yaronne 
sent Suzanna away 

“I am charmed, Madame,” said the stranger to 
her, “to announce to you that the king has just at 
last been informed of your situation, and that he 
wishes very much to repair the injustice that 
fortune has shown you. 

“ Oh ! Ambrose ! ” cried Madame de Yaronne, 
clasping her hands, and raising them with an ex¬ 
pression of the most lively gratitude. 

At this exclamation, the stranger could not 
restrain her tears; she approached Madame de 
Yaronne, and taking her hands affectionately: 

“Come, Madame” said she to her, “ come to 
the new lodging that is prepared for you.” 

“Ah! Madame,” interrupted Madame de 
Yaronne, “how to explain it! but if I dared, I 
would asked your permission. Madame, I have a 
benefactor; pray suffer me, before all, to inform 
him.” 

“ You have entire liberty,” replied the stranger, 
“ In the fear of fatiguing you, I do not ask to ac¬ 
company you to your friend, on your mission of 
gratitude. I will remain here until your return, 




126 


THE FAITHFUL SERVANT. 


and tlien accompany you to your new lodgings. 

Madame Varonne hastily prepared herself to 
make the visit to Ambrose, to inform him of her 
newly recovered fortune. 

Arriving at the house of hsicault she quickly 
ascended the steps to Ambrose’s sleeping room, 
where she found him still in a convalescent state, 
and much better. 

“Oh! Ambrose, she exclaimed,I have come at 
last to return to you my debt of gratitude and to 
repair all your suffering.” She then related to 
him the good fortune of the king having bestowed 
the pension upon her at last, the want of which 
she had felt so long. 

“And now ” said Madame Yaronne, “1 will take 
care of you my good Ambrose, my good and 
faithful servant.” 

Descending the difficult steps once more, she 
asked Yicault and his son to dress Ambrose and 
place him in the carriage. She then drove home, 
and from there accompanied by the lady, the 
beautiful lady, as little Suzanna called her, they 
drove to the very beautiful apartments prepared 
for her, and furnished in the most elegant man¬ 
ner. The lady had been sent as a messenger from 
the king to take Madame Yaronne to her new 
home. 

The king had bestowed upon her a pension of 




THE FAITHFUL SERVANT. 


127 


ten thousand francs a year,with a beautiful home, 
so that she lived in great comfort and some 
elegance; but she never forgot her faithful Am¬ 
brose, who was always her first care, and to whom 
she always showed the most grateful remembr¬ 
ance. 




Felicia, occupied only with the education of 
her two daughters, lived in the bosom of her ami¬ 
able family, whom she loved dearly, seeing only 
her relations and friends. Each day she congratu¬ 
lated herself on her happiness. Inclined to study, 
gifted with a sweet and tender-hearted soul, she 
never knew what hatred w r as. There was no sac¬ 
rifice that friendship had not a right to expect of 
her. Indeed no one despised pomp and fortune 
more than she did. 

However, the daughters of Felicia commenced 
to grow out of their childhood. Camilla, the eld¬ 
est, had scarcely reached her fifteenth year when 
her mother, on account of the situation of her 
affairs, found herself forced to give her in marriage. 

She had no fortune to leave to her; she could 
only establish her by obtaining for her an advan. 
tageous position. A suitable husband offering 







PAMELA. 


129 


himself for Camilla, Felicia did not dare to hesi¬ 
tate ; but she felt no less keenly how sad it was 
to be obliged to marry her daughter at so tender 
an age. Indeed, it is the greatest misfortune for 
a young person of fifteen years, as it may influ¬ 
ence the rest of her life; her education, often 
being unfinished, remains imperfect. Camilla, a 
short time after her marriage, fell dangerously ill. 
Anxiety, joined to watchings and sleepless nights, 
caused a sensible alteration in Felicia’s health, 
which she felt a long time after the recovery of 
her daughter. As her lungs appeared to be affect¬ 
ed, the doctors ordered her to drink the waters 
of Bristol. She was obliged then to leave her 
dear Camilla in Paris, in the hands of her mother- 
in-law, and set out for England with Natalie, her 
second daughter, then in her thirteenth year. 

Felicia had not taken the precaution to secure 
for herself a house, so that, on arriving at Bristol, 
she could find only a disagreeable lodging, separa¬ 
ted merely by a partition from another room oc¬ 
cupied by an Englishwoman, who was sick, and 
had been confined to her bed for ten months. 
Felicia, who understood English perfectly, learned 
from her landlady that this unhappy Englishwo¬ 
man was dying of consumption. She was a wi¬ 
dow ; her husband, a young man of distinguished 
birth, had been disinherited by his parents for 



130 


PAMELA. 


having made an improper marriage, and at liis 
deatli lie had only been able to leave to his wife 
a small pension for life ; a circumstance rendered 
still more afflicting for this unfortunate lady, as 
she had a daughter five years of age, who would 
lose, with her, mother, all means of subsistence. 
The landlady praised the child, whose name was 
Pamela, in the highest manner, and assured Felicia 
that a more charming child did not exist. This 
story imterested Felicia in a most lively manner, 
and the whole evening she conversed with Nat a- 
lie about their unhappy neighbor and her little 

girl. 

Felicia and Natalie occupied the same room. 
It was some time after they had retired; Natalie 
was sleeping soundly, and Felicia was beginning 
to dose, when a most extraordinary noise awakened 
her suddenly. She lent an attentive ear, and dis¬ 
tinguished groans, which appeared to come from 
the room of the Englishwoman. Then recollect¬ 
ing that the sick woman had only the waiting- 
maid and nurse to attend to her, Felicia imagined 
that perhaps her assistance would be of some use. 
She rose quickly, took her night-lamp, and went 
out softly, so that she might not wake Natalie. 
She passed through a dressing-room where her 
maid slept; in passing, she told her not to leave 
Natalie, and went out. Tlie sick woman’s door 



PAMELA. 


131 


was open. Felicia, hearing some words, broken 
by sobs, advanced trembling. Suddenly a wait¬ 
ing-maid, in tears, came out of the room, crying : 

“ It is over! she is no more ! ” 

“ O, heaven ! ” said Felicia, “and I ran to offer 
you help! ” 

“ She has just expired,” replied the waiting- 
maid. “ Oh my God! what will become of her 
unhappy daughter ? I have four children: how 
could I burden myself with this little unfortu¬ 
nate. ?” 

“Where is her daughter?” quickly interrupted 
Felicia. 

“Alas! Madame, the poor child is not old 
enough to appreciate her misfortune. She scarce¬ 
ly knows what death is. She loved her good 
mother, for there never was a more tender-heart¬ 
ed child. See, she is sleeping sweetly near her 
mother, who has just breathed her last ! ” 

“Just God! cried Felicia, “let us take away 
the child from a place so sorrowful. ” 

In saying these words, Felicia hastened toward 
the room. In order to approach the cradle of the 
child, it was necessary to pass by the side of the 
bed of the unfortunate English woman. Felicia 
trembled; she fixed for an instant her eyes, filled 
with tears, on the inanimate corpse, then threw 
herself on her knees: 



PAMELA. 


Oft 

-OjJ 


“0 unfortunate mother!” said she, “what 
must have been the bitterness of your last mo¬ 
ments! you leave your child without shelter, 
without help. Ah! from the depths of eternity,— 
I love to think so,—you still may see and hear me. 
I will take the care of your child; I will never 
let her forget her who gave her life ; each day she 
will implore the mercy of the Supreme Being for 
lier mother.” 

In finishing these words, Felicia rose and ap¬ 
proached the cradle with the most lively emotion. 
A curtain concealed the child. With a trembling 
hand she drew it aside softly, and discovered the 
innocent little orphan, whose beauty and angelic 
and touching face she contemplated with delight. 
The child was sleeping soundly : at the side of the 
bed of her unhappy dead mother, she tasted 
sweetly the charms of repose. The serenity of 
her brow, the ingenuous expression of her whole 
physiognomy that a sweet smile beautified still 
more, the freshness and brilliancy of her complex¬ 
ion, formed a striking contrast to her situation. 

“See,” said Felicia, “how she sleeps, at what a 
moment and in what a place! Poor child ! in vain, 
when you awake, will you ask for your mother; 
but nevertheless, another will replace her. Yes, 
I adopt you ; you shall find in my heart the ten¬ 
derness and affection of a mother. Let us go,” 



PAMELA. 


•too 

continued Felicia, addressing lierself to tlie waitin'* 
inaid;“help me to take this cradle into my room.” 

The maid obeyed with joy, and the child, with¬ 
out awakening, was carried softly upon her little 
bed into Felicia’s room. The young [Natalie 
had risen; uneasy and troubled, she run to her 
mother, who said to her: “ approach, Natalie; I 
bring you a second sister; come, see her, and 
promise me to love her.” 

Natalie threw herself on her knees before the 
cradle, in order to see the child better. Felicia 
related to her in a few words all that had hap¬ 
pened to the child. Natalie wept on hearing this 
sad story; she looked at the little Pamela tender¬ 
ly, calling her sister; she wished it was already 
the next day, that she might hear her speak, and 
embrace her a thousand times. At last it was nec¬ 
essary to put her to bed. Felicia could not close 
her eyes the whole night; but should we desire 
sleep when the remembrance of a good action 
deprives us of it ? 

At seven in the morning the maid entered 
Felicia’s chamber. As soon as the shutters were 
opened, Pamela awoke. Felicia ran to her cra¬ 
dle. The child, on perceiving her, appeared sur¬ 
prised ; she looked at her steadily, then she smiled, 
and extended her arms, Felicia pressed her in hers 
with transports of joy ; she believed in sympathy, 



rAMELA. 


134 

and persuaded lierself tliat slie saw the effects of 
it in the sweet caresses of the little Pamela, who 
already inspired her with an affection so tender, 
and she was animated by it still more. However, 
it was not Ions* before Pamela asked for her 
mother. This name of mother affected Felicia 
in a most lively manner: “ Your mamma,'” said 
she, “ is no longer here.” 

At these words, Pamela burst into tears. Nat¬ 
alie wished to console her; “ Leave her,” said 
Felicia, “with this touching affliction. I wish to 
see her tears flow : think of her situation, Natalie, 
and you wull experience the same feeling.” 

When Pamela was dressed, she knelt down 
and said her prayers aloud. Felicia started on 
hearing her say : “My God, please restore mamma 
to health! ” 

“Do not say that prayer any longer,” said 
Felicia, “for your mamma suffers no more.” 

“ She suffers no longer! ” cried Pamela, “ O my 
God ! I thank thee ! ” 

These words troubled the soul of Felicia. 

“My child,” said she, “say with me; my 
God ! please make mamma happy, and let her 
soul rest in peace.” 

Pamela repeated this prayer with touching fer¬ 
vor. Then turning toward Felicia, and regarding 
her with a timid and ingenuous air: “ Let me,” 



PAMELA. 


135 


said she, u ask God again to grant me tlie favor 
of soon permitting me to join mamma.” 

In finishing these words, she perceived that 
the eyes of Felicia were filled with tears: she 
rose and threw herself on her neck, weeping. At 
this moment they came to tell Felicia that her 
carriage was ready: she took the little Pamela 
in her arms, and, accompanied by Hatalie, she 
entered her carriage, and set out for Path. 

Felicia did not return to Bristol until the end 
of fifteen days and not wishing to return again to 
her first lodging, she rented another house there. 
Each day she became more and more attached 
to Pamela: the angelic sweetness, the tenderness 
and gratitude of this child, were for her a sweet 
recompense. 

After having passed three months at Bristol, 
Felicia left England and returned to France. All 
her family congratulated her on the adoption of the 
amiable Pamela. It was impossible to see her 
without being interested in her, or to know 
her without loving her. When she had reach¬ 
ed her seventh year, Felicia instructed her her¬ 
self, and related to her the history of her unhappy 
mother. This sad story caused Pamela to shed 
abundant tears ; she threw herself at the feet of 
her benefactress, and said all that gratitude and the 
most touching tenderness inspired. Pamela pos- 



136 


rAMELA. 


sessed an elevated soul; when she spoke of her 
feelings, she no longer used the language or the 
expressions of childhood. One might relate a 
thousand charming; traits of her many tine and 
delicate answers, a crowd of happy and touching 
words, that the heart alone can inspire. This 
lively, yet deep sensibility shed an inexpressible 
grace over all her actions, and gave to her sweet¬ 
ness a charm, which penetrated into your very 
soul. You might see Pamela many times before 
perceiving if her features were regular, or if she 
was beautiful, or only pretty. 

One was only struck with her interesting and 
ingenuous physiognomy, and with the heavenly 
expression of her face. You could neither exam¬ 
ine nor praise her like another. She had large 
brown eyes, with long, black eye lashes. One 
could say nothing of her eyes; they only spoke 
of her expression. She had all the desire to please 
and to oblige, which is always given to one so 
naturally good; she was studious, generous, 
obliging, sincere, as well as artless. In short, one 
found in her qualities and charms whose union 
is very rare. She possessed shrewdness, with 
frankness and ingenuity ; she was gay and tender¬ 
hearted ; mild, yet withal lively. 

The only defects that Pamela possessed arose 
from this extreme vivacity, which, however, never 



PAMELA. 


137 


caused her the slightest movement of impatience 
at anything that might occur, but which gave 
her a thoughtlessness that few children have car¬ 
ried farther. Pamela, much less through negli¬ 
gence, than through the effect of her vivacity and 
her thoughtlessness, lost without ceasing, all that 
was given to her. 

When she went to walk, she took off her hat, 
so as to run better, and, returning to the house, 
always running, she would leave her hat upon 
the grass. After having worked, the eagerness 
to go and play would not permit her to gather 
together her thimble, her needles, her sheath, nor 
to lock them up : she rose quickly,the work bag, 
always open, falling to the ground, Pamela jump¬ 
ing over all, and disappearing in the twinkling of 
an eye. 

They were charmed to see her run in the fields 
or in the garden; but they had forbidden her to 
run in the house. Pamela, with the greatest desire 
to obey, forgot continually this prohibition ; she 
fell regularly two or three times a day, and left 
at all the doors fragments of dress and apron. 
At last, by dint of prayers, exhortations, and pun¬ 
ishments, she lost insensibly a little this excess of 
wildness. Felicia every morning demanded an 
account of what she should have in her pockets 
and in her work-bag; and this daily examination 
conduced to render Pamela less thoughtless. 



138 


rAMELA. 


One morning Felicia, following this custom, 
examined Pamela’s pockets, and did not find lier 
scissors there. Pamela, scolded and questioned, 
replied that they were not lost, that she knew 
where they were. 

“And where are they?” asked Felicia, “mam¬ 
ma,” replied Pamela, “they are on the floor, in 
my sister’s little room.” 

“ How, on the floor ? And why have you left 
them there ? ” 

“ Mamma, I was in this little room, I was wip¬ 
ing my nose; in drawing out my handkerchief, 
my scissors fell out of my pocket; at this moment 
I heard your hell, I -ran immediately—” 

“ What! Without taking time to pick up your 
scissors ? ” 

“Yes, mamma—to see you sooner.” 

“But you knew well that I should demand an 
account of your scissors, and that I should scold 
you, when I did not find them.” 

“Mamma, I did not think of that; I thought 
only of you, and of the pleasure of seeing you.” 

In pronouncing these words, Pamela had tears 
in her eyes, and blushed. Felicia looked at her 
steadily, with a severe air; Pamela blushed still 
more. This deep blushing, and the apparent un¬ 
truthfulness of the story, convinced Felicia that 
the innocent little Pamela had just lied. 



PAMELA. 


139 


“ Get out of my sight! ” said she to her. “ I 
am sure that there is not a word of truth in all 
that you have just told me; leave the room with¬ 
out replying.” 

Pamela, in tears, clasped her hands, and fell at 
the knees of Felicia, without saying a single word. k 
Felicia only saw in this suppliant action the 
avowal of her fault. She repulsed her with in¬ 
dignation, and overwhelmed her with reproaches. 
Pamela, obeying the order that she had received, 
kept silence, and only gave expression to her grief 
by sobs and moans. 

Felicia resided then in the country; she went 
out to go to church, and instead of taking 
Pamela, as usual, she told the maid to take her, 
and left hastily. Arrived at the chapel, Felicia 
had, in spite of herself, more than one distraction. 
She turned her head many times toward the door, 
and at last saw Pamela enter, her eyes red and 
tearful; the poor little one knelt down humbly on 
tihe steps of the stairway. The maid told her not 
to stay there w T ith the servants, but to go forward. 

“This place is yet too good for me,” replied 
Pamela. ^ 

This humility touched Felicia: she made a sign 
to Pamela to approach. The poor child wept 
with joy, on taking her place by the side of her 
adopted mother. 



140 


PAMELA. 


After service was over, Felicia’s maid ap¬ 
proached her. 

“ Pamela,” said she, “did not lie.” 

“ How ? ” 

“ Ho, Madame; she begged me to go down with 
her into the little room, and we found there the 
scissors on the floor, as she said.” 

“ Good Pamela!” cried Felica, taking her in 
her arms; and you let me accuse you, and treat 
you so ill, without saying anything in your justi¬ 
fication ? ” 

“ My dear mamma, you had forbidden me to 
speak.” 

“And you fell at my knees; you appeared to 
ask pardon.” 

“I should always ask pardon when mamma is 
angry with me; when she scolds me, I am surely 
wrong.” 

“ But I was unjust.” 

“Ho; my benefactress, my tender mother, can 
never be so with me.” 

Who would not love a child capable of such an 
attachment and who showed such sweetness, and 
such a touching submission? 

At seven years of age, Pamela suffered much 
with her teeth. She had also, at this period, a 
languor, or sort of decline, which lasted for more 
than a year. Felicia, in order to take better care 



PAMELA. 


141 


of her, made her always sleep in her room. 
Pamela, seeing the uneasiness of Felici, sought 
to conceal her sufferings, her long, sleepless nights. 
Felicia rose often, took her in her arms, and gave 
her something to drink. Pamela never received 
any of these little cares without shedding tears of 
tenderness and gratitude. She would always in¬ 
treat Felicia to return to bed quickly. 

“ Sleep, mamma,” she would say;“your sleep 
does me good. When I know by your breathing 
that you are asleep, I suffer a thousand times less.” 

There was no good or fine feeling that was a 
stranger to Pamela’s heart, even those that ought 
to be the fruit of reflection and education. She 
scarcely remembered England; she loved Felicia 
too dearly not to love France; but she never for¬ 
got that she was English, and preserved for her 
country a most virtuous attachment. One day, when 
she was eight years old, Felicia was writing, and 
Pamela playing quietly near her. There was 
then war with England; suddenly Felicia heard 
the sound of cannon; she listened and exclaimed: 

“ There, perhaps that announces a victory over 
the English.” 

On saying these words, her eyes fell on Pamela, 
and her surprise w T as extreme, on seeing her face 
grow pale, then blush, and cast down her eyes. 
At this moment several persons entered the room: 



112 


PAMELA. 


they came to tell her that dinner was served. 
Pamela appeared trembling and troubled. Felicia, 
wishing to look into the depths of her soul, said 
to her: 

“ We must know why there was such a cannon¬ 
ading. I flatter myself yet that we have beaten 
the English.” 

Scarcely had Felicia finished these words, than 
Pamela, bursting into tears, threw herself at her 
feet. 

“O mamma!” cried she, “pardon my grief! 
I do not love France less, but I was born in Eng¬ 
land ! ” 

This singular feeling for one of her age touched 
Felicia deeply. 

“My child,” said she “a touching and sublime 
instinct inspires you better than reason could! 
In believing you have committed a fault, you 
have fulfilled a sacred duty. Preserve always for 
your country, and for that of your father, this 
tender interest! Love the French—you should 
do so; but never forget that England is your 
country.” 

These words animated Pamela and penetrated 
her with joy, and the same evening, before retir¬ 
ing, she added to her prayers this one: 

“My God ! grant that the English and French 
may no longer hate one another, and that they 
may never do each other any harm.” 



PAMELA. 


With such a good heart, it was impossible that; 
Pamela should not possess a sincere and tender 
piety. Certain that God saw and heard her 
every instant of her life, she never committed any 
fault without ashing His pardon with the most 
touching tears of the truest repentance. Put be- 
foi'e imploring this pardon, she accused herself to 
Felicia: 

“Would God pardon me,” said she, “if I was 
wanting a confidence in mamma ? Besides, a fault 
weighs much more heavily, when mamma is ig¬ 
norant of it; and then it is so sweet to open your- 
heart to those whom you love ! Mamma will give, 
me, perhaps, a little penance; but she will speak, 
she will reason with me, she will praise the sin¬ 
cerity of her Pamela, she will embrace me a-, 
thousand times; and this evening on retiring, 
when I shall have asked for her blessing, she will 
give it with still more tenderness than usual, if it 
is possible.” 

After these reflections, Pamela threw herself 
into the arms of her mother, and she found there 
the reward of her candor and her affection. 

Not wishing to be separated from her bene¬ 
factress, preferring, above every other pleasure, 
that of being with her, even without speaking to 
her; established in her room, whilst Felicia read, 
wrote, or practised her music, Pamela would amuse 



144 


PAMELA. 


herself in silence ; a:id without making the least 
noise. From time to time, however, she would 
rise sof tly, and approaching Felicia, embrace her, 
and then return to her place. More than once, 
leaving her playthings suddenly, she came and 
threw herself weeping into the arms of Felicia: 

“Instead of playing,” said she, “ I was thinking 
,of you, mamma, and of your kindness.” 

In speaking thus, Pamela fell at the feet of her 
benefactress; she clasped her knees, and with a 
passionate expression, and all the energy of feel¬ 
ing and gratitude, she would recall all that she 
.owed to her. 

Such an extraordinary child, so engaging, so 
loving, necessarily could not be an ordinary per¬ 
son; also, Pamela, at seventeen years, fully justi¬ 
fied all the hopes that her childhood had inspired. 
She was well educated, possessed the most agree¬ 
able talent, and all that sweet address which is so 
becoming to a woman. There was no kind of 
needle-work that she could not do; she drew well, 
painted flowers perfectly, and played on the harp 
in a most superior manner: a talent so much the 
more precious for her, as she owed it solely to her 
mother, who had been her only teacher of the 
harp. Pamela loved reading, especially natural 
history and botany. She wrote well, and as to her 
style, they scarcely had to form it; for with so 




rAMELA. 


145 


tender and sweet a soul, Low could she write 
without taste, or fail in strengli and imagination ? 
She had preserved the ingenuousness and all the 
graces of her childhood, caressing manners, a 
frank and communicative sprightliness, and that 
attractive sweetness which won all hearts. As the 
favorite amusement of her childhood had been to 
exercise in running and jumping, the consequence 
was that she enjoyed excellent health; although 
her features were delicate, her figure small and 
light, she had, notwithstanding, astonishing 
strength. It was impossible to exceed her in run¬ 
ning; no one walked better, or danced with more 
grace. She united to all these charms a goodness 
that she never deviated from, and which was al¬ 
ways the same. She often worked in secret for 
the poor; she merited the praise that a modern 
author gave to some unfortunate queen: “ She 
displayed those sweet and benevolent virtues 
which philosophy teaches men, and which nature 
gives to women.” 

Natalie was seven years older than Pamela, and 
had been in society for some years, as well as her 
sister, Camilla. These two daughters made much 
happiness for their mother. But this pure felicity 
was troubled by an event which plunged Felicia 
in the greatest affliction: 

She had a young sister-in-law named Alex- 



146 


PAMELA. 


andrine, who, by her virtues and her talents, was 
the delight of her family. 

Suffering for six months with a debility which 
at first was not thought dangerous, Alexandrine 
resolved to pass a year in the southern provinces. 
Felicia experienced the double sorrow of seeing 
her mother set out with Alexandrine. This 
virtuous mother consented to separate from her 
daughter, to undergo the fatigue of a sad journey 
and the suffering of a long absence, to follow a 
daughter-in-law, to whom her care seemed to have 
become necessary. Alas! she carried away with 
her some consoling hopes, but soon lost them, 
never to return. The journey only increased the 
sufferings of Alexandrine. At last the most ter¬ 
rible symptoms extinguished every ray of hope. 

Felicia, informed by her mother of these un¬ 
happy details, sought still to delude herself, when 
she received from her a letter, couched in these 
words: 

“Nice, November 8th, 1872— 

“ She is still alive; but perhaps, when you re¬ 
ceive this letter, she will be dead. O my daughter! 
What will become of your unhappy brother? 
What will become of me, with his grief and my 
own ? And I am two hundred miles away from 
you ! This angelic creature that we are about to 
lose, we have only known imperfectly. A tran- 



PAMELA. 


147 


quil and fortunate life, such as hers has been, could 
not bring out the sublime virtues that she pos¬ 
sessed; whereas, from the darkness aud obscurity 
of poverty, they might have shone with a great 
light. You have no idea of her fortitude, of her 
piety, of her patience, of her perfect resignation. 
I have told you that she deceived herself about 
her condition. I was in error, she was perfectly 
well aware of it; even on setting out from Paris, 
she confided it to her maid. I have the detail 
from Julia herself. To soften the horror of our 
situation, the invalid wished at last to persuade 
us that she preserved the illusion that we had 
lost; but yesterday she betrayed herself to me. 
We were alone; she told me that she desired to 
receive the sacraments the next day, and she 
begged me to announce it to her husband, with 
all the precaution and management that was 
necessary to prevent him from being alarmed; 
then she fell into a deep reverie. In order to 
draw her out of these sad reflections, I told her 
that I had written to you this morning. At these 
words she appeared to wish to confide something 
to me and I perceived that she was undecided. I 
pressed her hand in mine, asking her if she de¬ 
sired to send you some message. “Yes,” she 
replied, “an uneasiness torments me, it is this; 
you know that at thirteen years of age I had the 



148 


rAMELA. 


misfortune of losing my mother; they placed me 
then in the convent; a few days after, a poor 
woman who was paralyzed came and asked to 
■speak to me in the parlor; she told me that my 
mother, during the two last years of her life, had 
supported her. I embraced this unfortunate 
woman, weeping; from that time I took care of 
her myself. Please, dear mamma, please recom¬ 
mend this woman to my sister, and tell her, from 
me, that I leave her this charge, as a token of my 
friendship. Julie will give you her address. 
Pray send it to-morrow to my sister.” 

“ I could only reply with tears—Alexandrine 
kissed my hand with a most heart-rending ex¬ 
pression. At this moment the little dog Zennire, 
that you remember, and that she loves so well, 
wished to jump upon her bed. I took it on my 
lap. Your sister leaned down to kiss it: “ Poor 
Zennire ! ” she said, “ Mamma, you love dogs, I 
give her to you; promise me to keep her always.” 

You will know, my daughter, howto appreciate 
such traits. At the moment of leaving us, to 
think of all, to forget nothing ! At twenty-four 
years, beautiful, happy, enjoying the greatest 
consideration, about to be separated for ever from 
a husband most beloved, from a charming child, 
from a cherished aunt, who was at once for her a 
generous benefactress and a most amiable friend! 



rAMELA. 


149 


At last, in consummating tlie saddest sacrifice, to 
preserve a humanity so touching; to he occupied 
with a virtuous care of assuring herself of the 
fate of the unfortunate one of whom she had been 
the sole support; to bequeath to you her poor 
woman; again to occupy herself with little details 
from which even a slight illness would distract 
another—not even to forget the dog ! Ah! who 
would not admire a goodness so considerate, a 
fortitude so heroic ? Adieu, my daughter! I send 
you the only consolation that I can offer you at 
this moment: it is the address of the poor woman. 
To see and take care of her will bring you a sweet 
consolation.” 

As soon as Felicia had read this letter, she sent 
for her carriage, and, accompanied by Pamela, 
she set out for the Faubourg St. Jacques. It was 
there that the poor woman lived, who was called 
Madame Pusca, and who in that quarter, went by 
the name of the holy woman. The astonishment 
that Felicia and Pamela experienced, on seeing 
her, and listening to her, was only equal to the 
pity with which she inspired them. This un¬ 
fortunate paralytic had her feet and hands entirely 
withered and shrivelled. Her fingers, horribly 
elongated, appeared dislocated, and had lost all 
human shape. Iler face showed only a hideous 
mass, frightfully emaciated, and of a deathlike 



150 


rAMELA. 


pallor. Slie could neither raise nor turn her head, 
it rested on her breast; and in this horrible condi¬ 
tion for seventeen years she had, however, pre¬ 
served all her faculties. She was lying in a large 
room, neatly arranged; a clergyman, with a 
venerable face, was seated at the side of her bed. 

Felicia, on entering, made herself known as the 
sister-in-law of Alexandrine. At these words the 
poor woman raised her eyes to heaven, and at the 
same time her face was covered with tears. 

“ Ah! Madame,” cried she, “ what an angel you 
have for a sister! She is very young, and yet for 
eleven years she lias supplied me with every 
thing. If you knew, madame, what care I have 
received! ” 

“ Did she come often to see you ? ” 

“ Before her marriage, as she could not go out 
of the convent, I was taken three times a week to 
her parlor; then she asked permission to pass the 
grating, in order to be nearer to me; she brought 
me breakfast that she had prepared herself. As 
I could not use my hands, she fed me, and with 
such kindness, such attention! Indeed madame, 
do you know the greatest punishment that her 
nurse could inflict upon her ? It was to say: “To¬ 
morrow you shall not feed Madame Busca; it is I 
who will w r ait on her alone.” Then she became 
as obedient as a lamb. She always honored me 



PAMELA. 


151 


by calling me mother, and she wished that I 
should call her my daughter. Ah, well! when I 
saw that the nurse was not satisfied with her, I 
called her Miss. This dear child could not con¬ 
tain herself then: the tears would spring to her 
eyes, and she would immediately go and ask 
pardon of her nurse. You weep ladies, pursued 
the good woman: “ "What wmuld you do if I were 
to tell you all that she has done for me since her 
marriage ? A young and charming lady, as she 
is, to come every two or three days, and shut her¬ 
self up for whole hours with a paralytic! She 
brought me linen, fruit, preserves, and she often 
read to me a chapter from the holy scriptures. 
You know, madame, how divinely she sings. One 
day I begged her to sing for me. “ I only know 
the ugly, worldly songs which would not please 
my mother, but I will learn for her some beauti¬ 
ful hymn.” In short, four or five days after, 
she came to sing for me several Christmas hymns 
of great beauty. In truth, madame, I believe 
I saw, I believe I heard, an angel! Another 
time she brought her harp, and she played for me 
for more than two hours. But this is not all, 
madame: you see the condition in which I am; 
you must know, still more, that all my limbs are 
frightfully deformed, and that I never pass a 
week without having the most terrible convul- 



152 


PAMELA. 


sions If it was not, madamc, to make yon better 
acquainted with your most estimable sister, I 
should not dare to enter into such details.” 

“Ah! speak, go on,” interrupted Felicia quick¬ 
ly, shedding tears freely; “speak ! ” 

“ Ah, well! madame,” replied the woman, “the 
sweet Christian humanity of this dear angel was 
such, that there were no services that I was not 
forced to accept from her. For example, since 
you command me, I will tell you that no one 
could cut my nails without causing me very great 
suffering, at least unless done with great dexterity: 
and this is the care with which she charged her¬ 
self regularly. Surely, madame, you must have 
remarked how white and delicate were her little 
hands; but you are ignorant that every week these 
pretty hands washed the feet of a poor, infirm, 
woman.” 

The woman was silent, and her tears com¬ 
menced to flow. Felicia and Pamela were not 
able to speak. There was a moment of deep 
silence. At the expiration of a few moments, a 
young girl entered the room, and asked the poor 
woman if she wanted anything. The woman 
thanked her, and the young girl went out. Then 
the clergyman, who remained seated at the head 
of the woman’s bed, addressed himself to Felicia: 

“ Madame,” said he, “will learn surely with in- 



PAMELA. 


terest that this young person who offered her 
services to Madame Busca, is the daughter of one 
of her neighbors, and all the other neighbors of 
Madame Busca are as obliodnsr. One comes to 

O O 

work for her, another arranges her room, a third 
charges herself with bringing her light, and light¬ 
ing her lire; in short, madame, the spirit of charity 
of your estimable sister seems to animate every 
one who inhabits this house. It is true that the 
example of this young and virtuous lady has con¬ 
tributed not a little to increase the activity of a 
zeal so laudable.” 

“Ah!” said Felicia, “with what admiration I 
feel myself penetrated ! ” 

“Indeed, Madame,” replied the clergyman, 
“what you have just heard, with this poor woman 
before you, merits well to inspire you with such 
sentiments. If you could know, madame, This 
unfortunate woman ! Iler piety, and the sublimi¬ 
ty of her religion ! She has not described to you all 
her misfortunes: this withered and immovable 
body is covered with sores and ulcers. I spare 
your feelings the details that you could not hear 
without shuddering.” 

“All! the unfortunate one!” cried Felicia, 
“ TFliat! Could no one relieve her sufferings ? Is 
there no remedy ? ” 

“Ho, madame, there is no human art that can 



154 


PAMELA. 


relieve them; but she is so much the more ad¬ 
mirable, that she never finds anything to complain 
of.” 

“ Can it be ?” 

“Yes, madame,” replied the woman “not only 
do I accept these misfortunes with resignation, 
but I endure them with joy. Ah ! how can one 
be astonished at that? For the sufferings of a 
moment, supported with patience, will obtain an 
eternal happiness. Our reward will be propor¬ 
tioned to our merits. What gratitude I owe to 
God for having placed me in a situation where I 
can have a continual merit in His eyes: that of 
suffering without complaint: in a situation where 
nothing can distract me from Him; where every¬ 
thing invites me to occupy myself only with 
eternity! Oh ! how dear my misfortunes are to 
me! They have expiated the faults of my youth, 
they have purified my heart, they have detached 
me from all the false goods of this world. The 
world exists no longer for me; it can no longer 
seduce or corrupt me, my soul no longer inhabits 
this strange land; it is already invited to its 
Creator. My God ! I see Thee, I hear Thy pa¬ 
ternal voice; it raises me, it fortifies me, it orders 
me to submit without murmuring; it promises me 
the price of an immortal crown. O my God ! I 
obey Thee with transport, I adore Thy decrees, I 



PAMELA. 


155 


bless my destiny, and I would not change it for 
the most brilliant fate in the universe.” 

In speaking thus, this woman expressed herself 
with as much strength as feeling; the sound of 
her voice no longer announced a condition of 
weakness and exhaustion, or one reduced by suf¬ 
ferings; her eyes opened and shone brightly at 
this moment, with an extraordinary fire. Felicia 
and Pamela listened and looked at her with de¬ 
light. 

“Ah! well! madame,”said the clergyman, 
“would you have believed it possible that, in such 
a condition, you could find anyone so happy ? 
This woman, who blesses her destiny, what would 
become of her without religion? What would be 
the horror of her situation, if she could doubt the 
eternal truths with which she is penetrated ? The 
atheist who seeks to make proselytes, what could 
he reply to this woman, when she would say to 
him: You wish to snatch away from me the only 
consolation that remains for me, and that I can 
en joy; you wish to plunge me into the most fright¬ 
ful despair. Cruel being! behold my misfortunes, 
see my fortitude, my patience, my resignation, 
the calmness of my soul, and shudder at your bold 
attempt?” 

Felicia admired the justice of this reflection, 
and left the poor woman, promising faithfully to 



156 


PAMELA. 


return to see her as often as her occupations and 
duties would permit her to do so. Felicia and 
Pamela conversed together the rest of the day 
about Alexandrine and the holy woman. 

“ How can it be,” said Pamela, “that my aunt 
has never spoken to you of this woman ? ” 

“It is this,” replied Felicia, “which ought to 
fill us with admiration. Such is the character of 
true virtue. When reason alone causes us to per¬ 
form a good action, then we are tempted to feel 
proud of the efforts that it has cost us; but, when 
it is the grace of God which inspires us to do 
good, instead of admiring ourselves, w r e say: “ I 
do not merit any praise; I have only followed the 
inspirations of my heart.” Have you ever seen a 
miser who decided to make a present ? It is al¬ 
ways bestowed with a pomp and an emphasis 
which proves that he is not familiar with good 
deeds, and consequently how much vanity he 
draws from them. Indeed, it costs them so much, 
that one is forced to pardon the foolish pride that 
they display. Observe, on the contrary, with what 
noble simplicity a generous person knows how to 
give. It is thus that common souls draw vanity 
from their good actions, because they find them 
so painful, that they attach to them an extreme 
merit; whilst great souls are preserved from this 
pride by their elevation, as well at their sublime 
inspiration for all that is good and virtuous.” 



PAMELA. 


157 


“ This reflection,” said Pamela, “should make 
us love modesty very much, or at least enable 
those who are wanting in it to conceal their pride 
with care, and never to boast of any praise-worthy 
action, since a different course only reveals the 
smallness of their soul, and their want of taste for 
virtue.” 

A few days after this conversation, Felicia re¬ 
ceived the overwhelming news of the death of 
her sister-in-law; she had always loved her tend¬ 
erly, and the details related by the holy woman 
had rendered her still more dear. Although she 
had been prepared for three months for this event, 
she experienced a deep grief. She hastened to 
find the holy woman, to taste the sorrowful con¬ 
solation of weeping with her, and of listening to 
the sorrowful praises of the one who was the ob¬ 
ject of them. 

Pamela wished to take the place of the inter¬ 
esting and virtuous Alexandrine, near the poor 
’woman. She rendered the same cares, and visited 
her twice a week. For nearly a year she had ful¬ 
filled these touching duties, when one morning, 
whilst she was washing the feet of the holy 
woman, the door of the room opened suddenly. 
A man of fifty years of age, with a noble and im¬ 
posing face, appeared; after having taken some 
steps, he stopped. Pamela was on her knees: she 
held the withered limbs of the poor woman, and 



158 


PAMELA. 


was wiping them. In this attitude, she held her 
head bent down; and her long hair, falling over 
her face, concealed it partly. Hearing the noise 
that the stranger made, she raised her head, and 
could not restrain a movement of surprise; a vir¬ 
tuous blush spread over her face, and rendered her 
still more interesting. Turning toward an Eng¬ 
lish maid who accompanied her, she scolded her 
a little in English for having forgotten to bolt 
the door. 

Immediately the stranger, with delight, ex¬ 
claimed in English: 

“Thank heaven, this angel is a fellow country¬ 
woman ! ” 

The astonishment of Pamela was extreme, and 
her embarrassment increased still more, when she 
saw the stranger approach, take a chair, and seat 
himself gravely opposite to her. Whilst she 
hastened to wrap up the limbs of the good woman, 
before going, the stranger did not cease gazing 
steadily at Pamela. He was so much absorbed in 
his reverie, that he did not seem to perceive the 
embarrassment that his presence caused her. At 
last Pamela rose, bade adieu to the old woman, 
and passing before the stranger and bowing, she 
went out hastily. 

Some days after this adventure, Pamela learned 
from her protegee that the stranger had remained 




PAMELA. 


159 


afterward for an liour with her; that he had asked 
a thousand questions about the young person that 
he had first seen with her; that he had asked her 
name, and that of the person who had brought 
her up. 

The same evening Felicia received a letter that 
she read to Pamela, and which was expressed in 
these words: 

“Madame, I have resolved not to return to 
England without finding out the generous person 
who has been pleased to adopt an English orphan. 
The amiable Pamela does too much honor to her 
country; and to the education that she owes to 
you, madame, not to inspire with the most lively 
interest an Englishmen who was not unworthy to 
enjoy the happiness of contemplating her virtue. 
I am fifty years old; so, madame, I have the 
right to tell you, without hesitation, that the scene 
which I witnessed a few days ago has made the 
deepest impression upon my heart. 

The charming Pamela, on her knees, washing 
the feet of this unfortunate paralytic, will never 
be effaced from my memory. They told me that 
she had relations in England who refused to rec¬ 
ognize her. Pray confide to me the secret of her 
birth. I offer you, in her behalf, the services and 
the zeal of the most tender father. 

“ I am, with respect, 

J “ Charles Areslyd 



160 


PAMELA. 


“I beg yon, mamma,” cried Pamela, after hav¬ 
ing read this letter, “ not to see this Englishman. 
You are every thing to me; do not seek to force 
the recognition of me by relations who have aban¬ 
doned me. I belong to you: what, then, is want¬ 
ing for my happiness ? ” 

“But, my child,” replied Felicia, “if your 
parents would recognize you, you would have a 
name, an estate.” 

“You give me the sweet name of daughter; 
you permit me to consecrate my life to you; what 
more could I possibly desire \ ” 

“Let me,” said Felicia, “receive this good 
Englishman ; his admiration for my Pamela gives 
me, I confess it, the desire of becoming acquaint¬ 
ed with him. He knows how to appreciate my 
child: is not that a claim upon me ? But I prom¬ 
ise you never to confide to him your name, with¬ 
out your consent.” 

On this condition Pamela gave her consent to 
the visit of the Englishman, and the next day Mr. 
Aresley was received by Felicia. 

After the first compliments, Mr. Aresley re¬ 
newed his offers to be of service, and implored 
Felicia to confide to him the name of Pamela’s 
family. Felicia confessed frankly to him that 
Pamela herself was opposed to this confidence. 

“ I shall lose,” said Mr. Aresley,” “ the oppor¬ 
tunity of making myself useful to her.” 



PAMELA. 


101 


“ At least, Sir,” replied Pamela, “ do not doubt 
my gratitude. I cannot look at the least change 
in my fate without fear, since I find in the tender¬ 
ness of my generous benefactress a felicity which 
fills all the desires of my heart; but I am not the 
less touched by your kindness.” 

Mr. Aresley looked at Pamela with emotion, 
and turning toward Felicia : 

“ I set out,” said he, “ at the end of this week; 
may I dare to hope, Madame, that you will per¬ 
mit me to recall myself sometimes to your 
remembrance ?” Felicia thanked him, and asked 
for his address. 

“ I no longer live in London,” said Mr. Aresley, 
“and I often travel; but if you will, Madame, 
address your letters to London, to the care of Mrs. 
Selwin, they will surely reach me. 

At the name of Selwin, Felicia seemed excited, 
and Pamela troubled. Mr. Aresley, who was 
looking at Felicia, remarked her surprise, and 
asked if Mrs. Selwin had the pleasure of being 
acquainted with her. 

“I am acquainted with her name,” replied 
Felicia. 

“ This name,” replied Mr. Aresley “ is mine.” 

“ Indeed! ” 

“Yes, Madame; I renounced it on marriage, 
in order to obtain a property that I could not pos-- 



162 


PAMELA. 


sess without taking the name of the family. I 
have been a widower for ten years, and I have no 
child.” 

“ Had you a brother ? ” asked Felicia with ex¬ 
treme emotion. 

“Alas! Madame,” replied Mr. Aresley,” “I 
have had two, and I lost them. Mrs. Selwin is 
the widow of the second; and the third—” 

“Well, Sir?” 

“ This unhappy one, carried away by a sad pas¬ 
sion, did not recognize the paternal authority; 
he was disinherited. Repentance and grief short¬ 
ened his days; our unfortunate father followed 
him quickly to the tomb. I was absent then : a 
new series of misfortunes forced me to prolong 
my journey, and I only returned to England at 
the end of four years. I learned there the death 
of the widow of my second brother. She had 
left a daughter: I formed the project of looking 
for this child, and adopting her. The woman 
who took care of her had just died; but the hus¬ 
band of this woman told me that he believed that 
the unfortunate orphan only survived her mother 
a few months. This man added that he did not 
see his wife until six months after the death of 
my sister-in-law, and that then the child was no 
longer alive.” 

On pronouncing these words, Mr. Aresley per- 




PAMELA. 


163 


ceived that Pamela sought in vain to conceal the 
tears with which her face was bathed. Surprised 
at her agitation, at her paleness, he looked at her 
with emotion. Felicia, as troubled as Pamela, 
held one of her hands in hers, and pressed this 
trembling hand tenderly. 

Suddenly Pamela, quite distracted, rose, and 
advancing with a trembling step toward Mr. 
Aresley: 

“ Yes,” said she, “I ought to know the brother 
of my father.” 

“ Great Heavens ! ” exclaimed Mr. Aresly, 
springing toward her. 

Pamela, seized with a fear that she could not 
conquer, receded, and threw herself into the arms 
of Felicia. 

“O my mother!,” said she, in tears, “my 
benefactress, it is to you alone that I belong; keep 
your child: do not abandon her. If you give 
up your right to me, you will kill me. 

In finishing these words, Pamela allowed her 
head to fall upon Felicia’s bosom : her eyes closed, 
she fainted. Felicia, beside herself, called for 
assistance. Pamela soon recovered her conscious¬ 
ness, and opened her eyes. Mr. Aresley seized 
one of her hands. 

“ O Pamela! ” said he to her, “ banish all these 
foolish fears, which insult me. I have neither 



164 


PAMELA. 


the right nor the inhuman desire to tear you away 
from the arms of your adopted mother; you 
should consecrate to her every moment of your 
life. If truly you are that child, that unfortunate 
Selwin, that I have for so long a time deplored 
as lost, you will only find in me a friend, a tender 
father, incapable of exacting from you the slight¬ 
est sacrifice.” 

Pamela threw herself into the arms of Filicia; 
she expressed her joy and her gratitude to Mr. 
Aresley with that grace, that passionate emotion, 
that characterized her. Felicia hastened to seek a 
casket which Contained the proofs of the birth of 
Pamela. Mr. Aresley found there some letters 
and papers that Mrs. Selwin’s maid had formerly 
remitted to Felicia. 

This woman having received then some pres¬ 
ents from Felicia, they easily supposed that, in or¬ 
der not to share them with her husband, she 
had reported the death of the young Selwin, feel¬ 
ing sure that this child would never appear again 
in England. 

Mr. Aresley, seeing his wishes all consummated, 
on finding that his niece was the same young per¬ 
son whose virtues had made such a deep impression 
on his heart, wished that she should take her own 
name from that day ; and, from that time, his 
affection for Pamela became so tender, that he 




PAMELA. 


165 


established liimself in France, to be near her. 
Pamela knew well liow to merit bis benefits, by 
her attachment and gratitude. She never left 
Felicia; and her first care, the sweetest of her 
duties, was always to render her perfectly happy. 



punctuality. 


Antoinette and her brother Eugene, were two 
pretty, bright, sprightly children, who with their 
parents Madame Lavalle and her husband lived 
in Paris, and occupied a beautiful “ appartment,” 
as they are called there, (which means an entire 
floor) opposite the Champs Elysee, which is one 
of the most beautiful parks in Paris. Here, from 
their windows they looked out upon these lovely 
grounds, where w r ell-dressed, gay people were 
‘driving, laughing and talking, where the trees 
were grand, and the flowers beautiful, aud every¬ 
thing most charming. 

c? o 

Antoinette, or Nettie as they called her at home, 
was a very engaging little girl of thirteen; bri ght, 
and sparkling, studious when she was not play¬ 
ing, amiable and affectionate, generous and 
graceful; what more could she possess, I hear you 
say, and you think she was faultless ? wait! and 
you shall decide. 






PUNCTUALITY". 


1GT 


It is true she might have been more intelligent 
looking, if she had not been compelled to wear 
her hair banged, which entirely hid her forehead, 
that most intelligent portion of the human face ; 
but it was fashionable to have the hair banned, 
and Dame Fashion is inexorable, and Madame La- 
valle was very punctillious with regard to etiquette 
and fashion, the latter of which, when carried to 
excess is remarkably silly. Her eyes which were 
pretty brown eyes, always looked as though they 
were looking out from a thicket. Antoinette 
had in my estimation one very deplorable fault; 
it is true the world generally is very lenient with 
such a fault, and scarcely considers it an imper¬ 
fection. She was never punctual; she was never 
ready in time to go anywhere ; she never rose in 
time, she was never punctual at meals, she was 
never in time for school, always tardy, always be¬ 
hind, always running after time, instead of taking 
it by the “ forelock.” 

Unfortunately for Nettie, her mama did not 
set a very good example, for Madame Lavalle 
considered it quite vulgar to be punctual, indeed 
I am very sure that I have heard her express an 
opinion to that effect. So that Nettie was allowed 
to carelessly fall into this bad habit, which is so 
deplorable in its results, and which leads to so 
many mistakes. 



1C8 


PUNCTUALITY. 


One very bright clay tlie carriage drove up as 
usual for Madame Lavalle’s morning drive. Mad¬ 
ame never went to dress, untill she saw the car¬ 
riage, or heard that it was there; consequently 
the horses were kept waiting, and became restive, 
and the coachman grumbled, and all things were 
not as serene, as if she had been punctual. When 
at last, however, Madame Lavalle was dressed 
and seated in the carriage, Nettie, as usual, was 
not ready. 

“ Where is Nettie ”, said Madame Lavalle, “not 
ready % ” I will not wait.” So the carriage drove 
off, and Nettie was left, to her great disgust, 
when she came down at last, and found that her 
mama had drivee away. 

“ Too bad!” exclaimed Nettie, “ such a lovely 
morning for a drive.” “Next time I certainly 
will be dressed in time.” But a child’s disap¬ 
pointment and grief are short-lived, and their sor¬ 
rows are like april skies, only over cast for a 
little while, when the unclouded blue appears 
again. The day was charming, and she soon 
found herself in the Champs Elysee playing with 
the children. Her Uncle Col. Xavier Leblanc, 
who was also amusing himself with a quiet stroll 
through the Park, saw Nettie, and called to her. 

“What is the matter little one, that you are 
not with mama driving ? ” 



PUNCTUALITY. 


169 


“ I was too late,-’ replied Nettie, “ and mama 
could not wait.” 

“ Toujours tarde ” said her uncle “ always late ” 
“ Truly tliou dost think that time will wait for 
tliee. Time and Tide wait for no man, not even 
for a pretty little girl like you Nettie. I fear 
you will be late even on your wedding day.” 
“ Eli! bien, so goes tlie world—I tliink some¬ 
times, lie said to himself, that it is upside down, 
people are so careless. Here is my sister, bring¬ 
ing up this child with no regard for time. She 
should be taught that time waits for no one, that 
there is a time for every thing etc, and he repeated 
over, all the old sayings about time down from 
the primer; and then there is a time to die, he 
said almost unconsciously, ah! well, that is a 
gruesome thought certainly, on this bright morn¬ 
ing ; ” and he took out his gold snuff box set with 
diamonds, and took two or three pinches, then 
settling his eye glasses firmly on his prominent 
nose, and taking his gold-headed came, proceeded 
on his morning promenade. Ah! walk on Col. 
Xavier Leblanc. How many of us are ready when 
the pale rider comes ? How many of us are ready 
when the Angel of Death hovers over us, and 
the world is receding? We should not be too 
late then; we should be ready, our consciences, 
and all accounts settled; our house cleaned and 



170 


PUNCTUALITY. 


set in order ; our lamps trimmed, and we, ready 
to receive the always unwelcome guest, and to 
take the last journey. 

Antoinette had a very dear aunt, who was a re- 
ligieuse in the Convent of the Sacred Heart in 
Paris ; a Madame da Costa; she was a very saint¬ 
ly religieuse, and did an immense amount of good, 
by the advice and council, that she gave to the 
young worldlings who flocked to her for guid¬ 
ance in their labyrinth of folly. Antoinette 
loved to visit her dear Tanta as she called her, 
but as she was never allowed to go into the streets 
by herself, she was always compelled to coax one 
of the maids to take her. Madame Lavalle’s own 
especial maid seldom had time to attend to Nettie, 
so that it generally fell to the lot of old Julia the 
house-maid to take care of the little girl. Julie 
was very fond of her “ petit pigeon” as she called 
her little darling, and said, that if she wished to 
go to the gloomy Convent, that she should go, 
though for her part, she would rather gossip with 
old Sebastian the porter, who knew every carriage 
and livery on the Boulevard, and the pedigree of 
all the occupents of said carriages; and it is a 
great deal to know all that, and he knows all 
about the silver and jewels too said Julie—think 
of that! ” 

“ Oh ! what nonsense,” said Antoinette, “ and 



PUNCTUALITY. 


171 


how can you say the Convent is gloomy? “why,” 
continued Nettie, “ Tanta is so sweet and lovely 
that I am never tired when I am listening* to her: 
and her eyes shine so beautifully, like the sanctu¬ 
ary lamp, that they seem to light up the whole 
room. Oh ! Julie,” continued Nettie, “ she tells 
me so many lovely ways of doing and being good, 
that I am sure I shall learn to he tres sage , after 
a while.” 

“Ah! you are good now, my pet,” said old 
Julie, only—one thing—you are never in time. 
How is it petit pigeon, that you are always behind 
time ? If old Sebastian was not to open the door 
just at the click of the minute that the bell rang, 
he would be discharged; and if I were not up in 
the morning the moment the clock struck six —I 
would be discharged too.” 

“ I have heard mama say,” said Antoinette, 
“ that time was only made for slaves and 
servants.” 

“Hum,—Hum,” mumbled old Julia, fine talk 
for children to hear—I declare the rich think the 
world was made for them; but here we are little 
one, and now you will see your dear aunt, and 
many a good lesson may she teach you.” 

Arrived at the Convent du Sacre Caeur, an im¬ 
mense and imposing looking building, Julie rang 
the bell, and a sister opening the door, led An- 




172 


PUNCTUALITY. 


toinette at once to tlie parlor, to lier aunt, while 
Julie was entertained by tlie sisters in the garden. 

Madame da Costa folded little Antoinette in 
her arms, she was very fond of her sisters child¬ 
ren, and Nettie especially. 

“How art thou dear one? It has been many 
days since thou wert here ? ” 

“I know it darling Tanta, hut no one had time 
to bring me.” You know how much I desire to be 
with you always.” 

“ True, the world has many, demands many 
duties of its votaries.” 

“ Have you made any good resolutions Nettie, 
since I saw you ? “ Have you overcome any fault ? 
Let me see, which is the pet fault, the one that 
still lingers with you ? 

“ Oh ! dear Tanta, it is the same old fault, you 
know—I am never in time, never ready.” 

“ Do try cherie , to overcome that imperfection ; 
with that fault following you every where, vou 
will never accomplish any thing ; it will prevent 

you from ever making one step forward in prog¬ 
ress, because, you will always be taking one step 
backward every time.” 

u Try to live by rule Nettie dear, it is quite as 

necessary, for those in the world, as for the reli 0 *- 
• ' ^ 

leuse ; to live by rule, will make all things easy 
for you, without it, all will be confusion.” 



PUNCTUALITY. 


173 


“ Try to be punctual, without punctuality, you 
will ever be running after lost time, to try and 
make it up. And at the end of life, you have 
nothing to look back upon, but a series of mis¬ 
takes, and failures, caused by this want of 
punctuality .” 

“ I consider it,” continued Madame da Costa, 
“ as one of the greatest evils in life. In the ab¬ 
sence of punctuality, you become indolent. Peo¬ 
ple do not like te be punctual, because it involves 
a certain amount of exertion, and they are too 
indolent to make it. You do nothing at the 
right time, consequently there is much left un¬ 
done. If you are not punctual, you are not gen¬ 
erally exact; and from being inacurate, in even 
the most minute matters, you are very apt to 
become untruthful. This is perhaps a gloomy 
view to take of it, but you must remember dear 
one, that each time you are not ready, that you 
are not punctual, that you take a step backward, 
and you should try each day to take a step for¬ 
ward , one step toward perfection. 

One day, perhaps, dear Nettie, you may be 
called upon to be the head of a family, and unless 
you then possess, order, system, regularity and 
punctuality, you will not succeed in making a 
happy, well—regulated Home.” 

u Darling Tanta,” cried Nettie, every word that 



PUNCTUALITY. 


in 


yon have uttered lias dropped down into my 
Leart, and let us Lope tliey will bring fortL blos- 
sorns and fruit.” 

“ Try dear little one,” said Madame da Costa, 
kissing Nettie on LotL cLeeks, to overcome tliis 
defect, and to practise punctuality daily. Believe 
me, it is one of tlie great secrets of success. And 
now, dear cLild, adieu for a little wliile,and may 
tlie Angels of peace and order attend tliee.” 

Madame da Costa tlien rang tlie bell, and Julie 
appeared to lead Antoinette Home. 

Nettie was silent and meditative on lier way 
Home, slie scarcely spoke to old Julie, wlio jogged 
along grumbling, for ber petit pigeon generally 
amused ber, with lier prattle; but Nettie was 
treasuring up tlie precious pearls of wisdom, that 
Lad fallen from tlie sweet lips of lier saintly aunt, 
and slie was pondering on all these reflections in 
lier Leart, and making many good resolutions. 

“ Tomorrow I will begin,” said Nettie lialf 
out loud,— 

U M liat is that, ? ” said Julie, who beard some¬ 
thing, and wanted to talk. “ What are you going 
to do tomorrow ? ” 

“ 1 am going to rise at six, as you do Julie, 
and then I will be sure to be ready for breakfast.” 

“ Ah! Dieu ; cried the old woman, why little 
one, you will be sleepy all day.” 



PUNCTUALITY. 


175 


“No, no, I will not, it will give me plenty of 
time to dress and say my prayers, and to take a 
run in the garden, and then, be in time for 
breakfast; and then I will not be late at school, 
and I shall keep up, and be punctual all day.” / 

“ You had better stay in bed two hours longer,” k 
said Julie, “ I know that I would not get up, if I 
was not forced to.” 

“ No, no, said Antoinette, I will commence to¬ 
morrow ; Tanta has often told me, never to put 
off.” 

“Well, well, said Julie, I expect you will be a 
little Saint soon, and now here we are at Home, 
and I must have a chat with Sabastian.” 

Dinner was served; The lights were lighted; 
The table beautifully decorated with flowers; 
and as Madame Lavalle entered one door, Antoin¬ 
ette entered the other. 

Her mama exclaimed,—“why Nettie ! are yon 
really in time for dinner; under what good spell 
are you resting, that such a reformation has taken 
place ? ” 

“ Oh! dear mama, I have spent the afternoon 
with Tanta, and she has said such lovely things; 

I am really now, going to try and overcome that 
hateful fault, of always being behind time: you 
shall see mama, I will be in time for breakfast, 
and for school, and ready to drive with you.” 




176 


PUNCTUALITY. 


“ Now verrons,” said Madame Lavalle, “ I 
liope so.” 

True to her word, Nettie was up at six the 
next morning. When dressed, she roamed through 
the Garden, and gathered lovely boucpiets, for 
mama, papa, and Eugene, and placed them heside 
their plates. 

Papa came in, pinched her ear, and said “ what 
an early bird.” Mama entered, and looked 
pleased, and Eugene exclaimed, “why ISTettie, 
what is the matter ? you are turning over a new 
leaf.” 

Nettie found a great satisfaction in being 
praised, and in pleasing others, and finally felt 
very much pleased with herself. The effort to 
overcome this fault, and be really good, was such 
a healthy moral exercise, that it acted like a tonic, 
and braced her for future exertion. Nettie really 
was in earnest. We so often have the most beau¬ 
tiful intentions , so lovely, that they might be 
called inspirations; and though we enjoy them 
for the time being, yet we put off putting them 
into practice, until the next day, and then, until a 
more convenient season; and then a feeling of 
indolence comes over us, and we do not feel like 
making any exertion, and put it off still farther; 
until we forget that we have ever had a good 
intention. 



PUNCTUALITY. 


177 


Ilis Satanic majesty loves dearly such indolent 
natures, such procrastinating souls, that so often 
fall a prey, to his wiles and temptations. While 
activity, energy, industry and Zeal, in well direct¬ 
ed efforts for some good end, are really the most 
invincible armor, that we can put on, in self 
defense. 

Yes, Nettie was in earnest! she was fully aware 
of her fault, and most determined to conquer. 

For the afternoon drive, she was ready to ac¬ 
company her mother, and in driving through the 
Boulevard, they met Col. Xavier Leblanc, who 
accosted them gaily. “ Why, little one, were you 
really ready to drive to-day?*’ 

“ Oh ! yes,” replied Madame Lavalle, Nettie 
has turned over a new leaf, and I have great hopes 
of having a most exemplary daughter.” 

“ Well! ” said the Col., “I said the other day 
Nettie, that you would not be ready on your wed¬ 
ding day; but now, I say, that if you overcome 
that terrible fault, that is so destructive to order, 
peace and happiness; that I will give you on 
your wedding day, fifty thousand Louis d’or—• 
that is a promise. 

Nettie smiled, such promises were nothing to 
her,—she was working now in a good cause, to 
overcome nature and self. Her visits to her dear 
Tanta, only served to renew her efforts, which 



178 


PUNCTUALITY. 


were crowned with success. Her dear aunt’s 
prayers, together with her own exertions, served 
to mould her into a very brave, true woman, who 
learned by practise, self control, and who remem¬ 
bered the saintly advice of her dear aunt. “Lire 
J?y rule ” it is as necessary in the world, as in a 
religious life. When she grew up to womanhood, 
she T vas the model for her yonng companions; 
and w r hen later she formed a marriage with a 
most estimable gentleman, and became the moth¬ 
er of many sweet children; she was like the wise 
woman in Proverbs, “ her children and husband 
rose up and called her blessed.” 

Punctuality was the watchword in her house¬ 
hold, and order reigned supreme in her Home. 
For you see —Nettie had conquered. 
























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